iiiilSiSli 


The  Girl  at  the  Halfway  House 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  COWBOY. 

By  E.  HOUGH.  Illustrated  by  William  L.  Wells  and  C.  M. 
Russell.  A  volume  in  The  Story  of  the  West  Series, 
edited  by  Ripley  Hitchcock,  izmo.  Cloth,  $1.50. 

THE  HON.  THEODORE  ROOSEVELT: 

"  I  don't  know  when  I  have  read  a  book  that  I  like  more 
than  '  The  Story  of  the  Cowboy.'  I  have  always  been  hoping 
against  hope  that  such  a  book  would  be  written,  but  I  had 
about  given  it  up,  and  there  was  scant  time  remaining  in  which 
any  one  could  write  it  At  last— thank  Heaven  !— it  has  been 
done.  Not  only  is  it  to  my  mind  a  most  fascinating  book,  but  I 
think  it  is  as  valuable  a  bit  of  genuine  contemporary  history  as 
I  have  yet  examined." 

New  York  Times: 

"  Mr.  Hough  is  to  be  thanked  for  having  written  so  excellent 
a  book.  The  cowboy  story,  as  this  author  has  told  it,  will  be  the 
cowboy's  fitting  eulogy.  This  volume  will  be  consulted  in  years 
to  come  as  an  authority  on  past  conditions  of  the  Far  West. 
For  fine  literary  work  the  author  is  to  be  highly  complimented. 
Here,  certainly,  we  have  a  choice  piece  of  writing." 

Chicago  Evening  Post : 

"  Nothing  fresher  or  finer  has  been  written  in  many  a  day. 
.  An  admirable  book." 

New  York  Herald: 

"An  unusually  vivid  and  interesting  picture  of  Western 
life,  .  .  .  valuable  for  two  reasons :  first,  because  it  is  a  true 
history  of  cowboy  life ;  and,  second,  because  it  gives  a  graphic 
account  of  the  important  cattle  industry  of  the  West." 

Cincinnati  Commercial  Tribune  : 

"The  book  is,  without  a  shadow  of  a  doubt,  one  of  the  most 
notable  contributions  to  American  narrative  history  yet  pub- 
lished." 

Chicago  Tribune: 

"  Mr.  Hough  writes  whereof  he  knows.  The  sympathetic 
style  in  which  he  handles  his  subject  arises  out  of  close  associa- 
tion and  practical  experience  in  the  cowboy's  saddle.  His 
account  of  the  rude  and  stirring  life  of  other  days  upon  the 
Western  plains,  therefore,  has  a'l  the  graphic  vigor  of  an  eyewit- 
ness and  expert  cow  puncher.  Yet  to  this  he  adds  a  polished  and 
diversified  literary  style  such  as  one  would  scarcely  expect  to 
find  coupled  with  his  other  qualifications.  The  result  is  a 
thoroughly  interesting  and  valuable  volume.  There  is  just 
enough  of  the  poetic  touch  in  Mr.  Hough's  treatmeut  to  pre- 
serve the  romantic  picturesqueness  of  the  vanishing  figure  he 
portrays.  ...  At  once  history  and  literature,  with  the  added 
merit  of  being  as  interesting  as  the  best  of  fiction." 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 


He  saw  only  the  look  of  unconcern. 

(See  page  222.) 


The  Girl  at  the 
Halfway  House 

A   Story  of  the   Plains 


By 

E.  Hough 

Author  of  The  Mississippi  Bubble 


New  York 

D.  Appleton  and  Company 
1903 


COPYRIGHT,  1900 

AND  -COMPANY 


TO 

EDWARD   KEMEYS, 

SOLDIER,    HUNTER,    AND    SCULPTOR, 
WHO   KNEW   AND  LOVED  THE  WEST, 

AND  WHO  HAS   PRESERVED 
ITS   SPIRIT    IMPERISHABLY, 

THIS      BOOK      IS     INSCRIBED 
WITH   MANY  GRATEFUL  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS. 


M12564 


CONTENTS 


BOOK  I 
THE  DAY  OF   WAR 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I. — THE  BRAZEN  TONGUES I 

II. — THE  PLAYERS  OF  THE  GAME    ....  7 

III. — THE  VICTORY       .       .       .       .  .       .13 

BOOK  II 

THE  DAY  OF   THE  BUFFALO 

IV. — BATTERSLEIGH  OF  THE  RILE  IRISH    ...  21 

V. — THE  TURNING  OF  THE  ROAD          ....  28 

VI.— EDWARD  FRANKLIN,  LAWYER     ....  37 

VII. — THE  NEW  WORLD 49 

VIII. — THE  BEGINNING 65 

IX. — THE  NEW  MOVERS 75 

X.— THE  CHASE 89 

XI. — THE  BATTLE 99 

XII. — WHAT  THE  HAND  HAD  TO  DO    .       .        .        .115 

XIII. — PlE  AND  ETHICS 124 

XIV. — THE  FIRST  BALL  AT   ELLISVILLE            .           .          .  136 

XV. — ANOTHER  DAY      . 151 

XVI. — ANOTHER  HOUR 157 

vii 


Viii      THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

BOOK  III 
THE  DAY  OF  THE  CATTLE 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVII.— ELLISVILLE  THE  RED 166 

XVIII. — STILL  A  REBEL 172 

XIX.— THAT  WHICH  HE  WOULD 179 

XX. — THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 185 

XXL— THE  ADVICE  OF  AUNT  LUCY    .        .       .       .193 

XXII. — EN  VOYAGE 204 

XXIIL— MARY  ELLEN 211 

XXIV. — THE  WAY  OF  A  MAID 216 

XXV.— BILL  WATSON    . 232 

XXVI. — IKE  ANDERSON 240 

XXVII.— THE  BODY  OF  THE  CRIME        .       .       .       .246 

XXVIII.— THE  TRIAL 254 

XXIX.— THE  VERDICT 273 

BOOK  IV 
THE  DAY  OF  THE  PLOUGH 

XXX.— THE  END  OF  THE  TRAIL 286 

XXXI. — THE  SUCCESS  OF  BATTERSLEIGH      .        .        .  296 

XXXIL— THE  CALLING 310 

XXXIIL— THE  GREAT  COLD 316 

XXXIV.— THE  ARTFULNESS  OF  SAM        .        .       .       .336 

XXXV.— THE  HILL  OF  DREAMS 347 

XXXVI.— AT  THE  GATEWAY 357 


The  Girl  at  the  Halfway  House 


BOOK   I 
THE  DA  Y  OF   WAR.  :,  - 


CHAPTER   I'       - 

THE   BRAZEN   TONGUES 

THE  band  major  was  a  poet.  His  name  is  lost 
to  history,  but  it  deserves  a  place  among  the  titles 
of  the  great.  Only  in  the  soul  of  a  poet,  a  great 
man,  could  there  have  been  conceived  that  thought 
by  which  the  music  of  triumph  should  pass  the 
little  pinnacle  of  human  exultation,  and  reach  the 
higher  plane  of  human  sympathy. 

Forty  black  horses,  keeping  step;  forty  trum- 
peters, keeping  unison;  this  procession,  headed  by 
a  mere  musician,  who  none  the  less  was  a  poet,  a 
great  man,  crossed  the  field  of  Louisburg  as  it 
lay  dotted  with  the  heaps  of  slain,  and  dotted  also 
with  the  groups  of  those  who  sought  their  slain; 
crossed  that  field  of  woe,  meeting  only  hatred  and 
despair,  yet  leaving  behind  only  tears  and  grief. 
Tears  and  grief,  it  is  true,  yet  grief  that  knew  of 
sympathy,  and  tears  that  recked  of  other  tears. 


2          THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

For  a  long  time  the  lines  of  invasion  had  tight- 
ened about  the  old  city  of  Louisburg,  and  Louis- 
burg  grew  weaker  in  the  coil.  When  the  clank 
of  the  Southern  cavalry  advancing  to  the  front 
rang  in  the  streets,  many  were  the  men  swept 
away  with  the  troops  asked  to  go  forward  to  si- 
lence the  eternally  throbbing  guns.  Only  the  very 
old  and'  *h£  very  young  were  left  to  care  for  the 
homes  of  Louisburg,  and  the  number  of  these 
grew  Steadily  less  as  the  need  increased  for  more 
material  at  the  front.  Then  came  the  Southern  in- 
fantry, lean,  soft-stepping  men  from  Georgia  and 
the  Carolinas,  their  long  black  hair  low  on  their 
necks,  their  shoes  but  tattered  bits  of  leather  bound 
upon  their  feet,  their  blankets  made  of  cotton,  but 
their  rifles  shining  and  their  drill  perfection.  The 
wheat  lay  green  upon  the  fields  and  the  odours  of 
the  blossoms  of  the  peach  trees  hung  heavy  on  the 
air ;  but  there  was  none  who  thought  of  fruitage  or 
of  harvest.  Out  there  in  front,  where  the  guns 
were  pulsing,  there  went  on  that  grimmer  harvest 
with  which  the  souls  of  all  were  intimately  con- 
cerned. The  boys  who  threw  up  their  hats  to  greet 
the  infantry  were  fewer  than  they  had  been  before 
the  blossoming  of  the  peach.  The  war  had  grown 
less  particular  of  its  food.  A  boy  could  speed  a 
bullet,  or  could  stop  one.  There  were  yet  the  boys. 

Of  all  the  old-time  families  of  this  ancient  little 
city  none  held  position  more  secure  or  more  will- 


THE   BRAZEN  TONGUES  3 

ingly  accorded  than  the  Fairfaxes  and  the  Beau- 
champs.  There  had  always  been  a  Colonel  Fairfax, 
the  leader  at  the  local  bar,  perhaps  the  representa- 
tive in  the  Legislature,  or  in  some  position  of  yet 
higher  trust.  The  Beauchamps  had  always  had 
men  in  the  ranks  of  the  professions  or  in  stations 
of  responsibility.  They  held  large  lands,  and  in 
the  almost  feudal  creed  of  the  times  they  gave  large 
services  in  return.  The  curse  of  politics  had  not 
yet  reached  this  land  of  born  politicians.  Quietly, 
smoothly,  yet  withal  keyed  to  a  high  standard  of  liv- 
ing, the  ways  of  this  old  community,  as  of  these  two 
representative  families,  went  on  with  little  change 
from  generation  to  generation. 

It  was  not  unknown  that  these  two  families 
should  intermarry,  a  Fairfax  finding  a  wife  among 
the  Beauchamps,  or  perchance  a  Beauchamp  com- 
ing to  the  Fairfax  home  to  find  a  mistress  for  his 
own  household.  It  was  considered  a  matter  of 
course  that  young  Henry  Fairfax,  son  of  Colonel 
Fairfax,  should,  after  completing  his  studies  at  the 
ancient  institution  of  William  and  Mary  College, 
step  into  his  father's  law  office,  eventually  to  be 
admitted  to  the  bar  and  to  become  his  father's  part- 
ner ;  after  which  he  should  marry  Miss  Ellen  Beau- 
champ,  loveliest  daughter  of  a  family  noted  for  its 
beautiful  women.  So  much  was  this  taken  for 
granted,  and  so  fully  did  it  meet  the  approval  of 
both  families,  that  the  tide  of  the  young  people's 


4          THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

plans  ran  on  with  little  to  disturb  its  current.  With 
the  gallantry  of  their  class  the  young  men  of  the 
plantations  round  about,  the  young  men  of  the  fas- 
tidiously best,  rode  in  to  ask  permission  of  Mary 
Ellen's  father  to  pay  court  to  his  daughter.  One 
by  one  they  came,  and  one  by  one  they  rode  away 
again,  but  of  them  all  not  one  remained  other  than 
Mary  Ellen's  loyal  slave.  Her  refusal  seemed  to 
have  so  much  reason  that  each  disappointed  suitor 
felt  his  own  defeat  quite  stingless.  Young  Fair- 
fax seemed  so  perfectly  to  represent  the  traditions 
of  his  family,  and  his  future  seemed  so  secure; 
and  Mary  Ellen  herself,  tall  and  slender,  bound  to 
be  stately  and  of  noble  grace,  seemed  so  eminently 
fit  to  be  a  Beauchamp  beauty  and  a  Fairfax  bride. 

For  the  young  people  themselves  it  may  be 
doubted  if  there  had  yet  awakened  the  passion  of 
genuine,  personal  love.  They  met,  but,  under  the 
strict  code  of  that  land  and  time,  they  never  met 
alone.  They  rode  together  under  the  trees  along 
the  winding  country  roads,  but  never  without  the 
presence  of  some  older  relative  whose  supervision 
was  conventional  if  careless.  They  met  under  the 
honeysuckles  on  the  gallery  of  the  Beauchamp 
home,  where  the  air  was  sweet  with  the  fragrance 
of  the  near-by  orchards,  but  with  correct  gal- 
lantry Henry  Fairfax  paid  his  court  rather  to  the 
mother  than  to  the  daughter.  The  hands  of  the 
lovers  had  touched,  their  eyes  had  momentarily  en- 


THE   BRAZEN   TONGUES  5 

countered,  but  their  lips  had  never  met.  Over  the 
young  girl's  soul  there  sat  still  the  unbroken  mys- 
tery of  life;  nor  had  the  reverent  devotion  of  the 
boy  yet  learned  love's  iconoclasm. 

For  two  years  Colonel  Fairfax  had  been  with 
his  regiment,  fighting  for  what  he  considered  the 
welfare  of  his  country  and  for  the  institutions  in 
whose  justice  he  had  been  taught  to  believe.  There 
remained  at  the  old  Fairfax  home  in  Louisburg 
only  the  wife  of  Colonel  Fairfax  and  the  son  Henry, 
the  latter  chafing  at  a  part  which  seemed  to  him 
so  obviously  ignoble.  One  by  one  his  comrades, 
even  younger  than  himself,  departed  and  joined 
the  army  hastening  forward  toward  the  throbbing 
guns.  Spirited  and  proud,  restive  under  com- 
parisons which  he  had  never  heard  but  always 
dreaded  to  hear,  Henry  Fairfax  begged  his  mother 
to  let  him  go,  though  still  she  said,  "  Not  yet." 

But  the  lines  of  the  enemy  tightened  ever  about 
Louisburg.  Then  came  a  day — a  fatal  day — 
fraught  with  the  tidings  of  what  seemed  a  double 
death.  The  wife  of  Colonel  Henry  Fairfax  was 
grande  dame  that  day,  when  she  buried  her  hus- 
band and  sent  away  her  son.  There  were  yet  tradi- 
tions to  support. 

Henry  Fairfax  said  good-bye  to  Mary  Ellen 
upon  the  gallery  of  the  old  home,  beneath  a  solemn, 
white-faced  moon,  amid  the  odours  of  the  drooping 
honeysuckle.  Had  Mary  Ellen's  eyes  not  been  hid 


6          THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

beneath  the  lids  they  might  have  seen  a  face  pale 
and  sad  as  her  own.  They  sat  silent,  for  it  was  no 
time  for  human  speech.  The  hour  came  for  part- 
ing, and  he  rose.  His  lips  just  lightly  touched  her 
cheek.  It  seemed  to  him  he  heard  a  faint  "  good- 
bye." He  stepped  slowly  down  the  long  walk  in 
the  moonlight,  and  his  hand  was  at  his  face.  Turn- 
ing at  the  gate  for  the  last  wrench  of  separation,  he 
gazed  back  at  a  drooping  form  upon  the  gallery. 
Then  Mrs.  Beauchamp  came  and  took  Ellen's  head 
upon  her  bosom,  seeing  that  now  she  was  a  woman, 
and  that  her  sufferings  had  begun. 


CHAPTER   II 

THE   PLAYERS   OF  THE   GAME 

WHEN  the  band  major  was  twenty  miles  away 
in  front  of  Louisburg  his  trumpets  sounded  al- 
ways the  advance.  The  general  played  the  game 
calmly.  The  line  of  the  march  was  to  be  along 
the  main  road  leading  into  the  town.  With  this 
course  determined,  the  general  massed  his  reserves, 
sent  on  the  column  of  assault,  halted  at  the  edge  of 
the  wood,  deployed  his  skirmishers,  advanced  them, 
withdrew  them,  retreated  but  advanced  again,  ever 
irresistibly  sweeping  the  board  in  toward  the  base 
of  Louisburg,  knight  meeting  knight,  pawn  meet- 
ing pawn,  each  side  giving  and  taking  pieces  on  the 
red  board  of  war. 

The  main  intrenchments  erected  in  the  defences 
of  Louisburg  lay  at  right  angles  tq  the  road  along 
which  came  the  Northern  advance,  and  upon  the 
side  of  the  wood  nearest  to  the  town.  Back  of 
the  trenches  lay  broken  fields,  cut  up  by  many 
fences  and  dotted  with  occasional  trees.  In  the 
fields  both  the  wheat  and  the  flowers  were  now 
trampled  down,  and  a  thousand  industrious  and 

7 


8          THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

complaining  bees  buzzed  protest  at  the  losing  of 
their  commerce.  The  defences  themselves  were 
but  earthworks,  though  skilfully  laid  out.  Along 
their  front,  well  hidden  by  the  forest  growth,  ran  a 
line  of  entangling  abattis  of  stakes  and  sharpened 
interwoven  boughs. 

In  the  centre  of  the  line  of  defence  lay  the 
reserves,  the  boys  of  Louisburg,  flanked  on  either 
side  by  regiments  of  veterans,  the  lean  and  black- 
haired  Georgians  and  Carolinians,  whose  steadi- 
ness and  unconcern  gave  comfort  to  more  than 
one  bursting  boyish  heart.  The  veterans  had  long 
played  the  game  of  war.  They  had  long  since 
said  good-bye  to  their  women.  They  had  seen 
how  small  a  thing  is  life,  how  easily  and  swiftly  to 
be  ended.  Yellow-pale,  their  knees  standing  high 
in  front  of  them  as  they  squatted  about  on  the 
ground,  their  long  black  hair  hanging  down  un- 
cared  for,  they  chewed,  smoked,  swore,  and  cooked 
as  though  there  was  no  jarring  in  the  earth,  no  wide 
foreboding  on  the  air.  One  man,  sitting  over  his 
little  fire,  alternately  removed  and  touched  his  lips 
to  the  sooty  rim  of  his  tin  cup,  swearing  because 
it  was  too  hot.  He  swore  still  more  loudly  and  in 
tones  more  aggrieved  when  a  bullet,  finding  that 
line,  cut  off  a  limb  from  a  tree  above  and  dropped 
it  into  his  fire,  upsetting  the  frying  pan  in  which  he 
had  other  store  of  things  desirable.  Repairing  all 
this  damage  as  he  might,  he  lit  his  pipe  and  leaned 


THE   PLAYERS  OF   THE   GAME  g 

against  the  tree,  sitting  with  his  knees  high  in  front 
of  him.  There  came  other  bullets,  singing,  sighing. 
Another  bullet  found  that  same  line  as  the  man  sat 
there  smoking. 

Overhead  were  small  birds,  chirping,  singing, 
twittering.  A  long  black  line  of  crows  passed, 
tumbling  in  the  air,  with  much  confusion  of  chatter 
and  clangour  of  complaint  that  their  harvest,  too, 
had  been  disturbed.  They  had  been  busy.  Why 
should  men  play  this  game  when  there  were  serious 
things  of  life  ? 

The  general  played  calmly,  and  ever  the  points 
and  edges  and  fronts  of  his  advance  came  on,  press- 
ing in  toward  the  lasi  row  of  the  board,  toward  the 
line  where  lay  the  boys  of  Louisburg.  Many 
a  boy  was  pale  and  sick  that  day,  in  spite  of  the 
Encouraging  calm  or  the  biting  jests  of  the  veterans. 
The  strange  sighings  in  the  air  became  more  nu- 
merous and  more  urgent.  Now  and  then  bits  of 
twigs  and  boughs  and  leaves  came  sifting  down,  cut 
by  invisible  shears,  and  now  and  then  a  sapling 
jarred  with  the  thud  of  an  unseen  blow.  The  long 
line  in  the  trenches  moved  and  twisted  restlessly. 

In  front  of  the  trenches  were  other  regiments, 
out  ahead  in  the  woods,  unseen,  somewhere  toward 
that  place  whence  came  the  steadiest  jarring  of  artil- 
lery and  the  loudest  rattling  of  the  lesser  arms.  It 
was  very  hard  to  lie  and  listen,  to  imagine,  to  sus- 
pect, to  dread.  For  hours  the  game  went  on,  the 


10        THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

reserves  at  the  trenches  hearing  now  distinctly  and 
now  faintly  the  tumult  of  the  lines,  now  receding, 
now  coming  on.  But  the  volume  of  the  tumult, 
and  its  separation  into  a  thousand  distinct  and  ter- 
rifying sounds,  became  in  the  average  ever  an  in- 
creasing and  not  a  lessening  thing.  The  cracker- 
popping  of  the  musketry  became  less  and  less  a 
thing  of  sport,  of  reminiscences.  The  whinings 
that  passed  overhead  bore  more  and  more  a  per- 
sonal message.  These  young  men,  who  but  lately 
had  said  good-bye  to  the  women  of  their  kin,  began 
to  learn  what  war  might  mean.  It  had  been  hereto- 
fore a  distant,  unmeasured,  undreaded  thing,  con- 
querable, not  to  be  feared.  It  seemed  so  sweet  and 
fit  to  go  forth,  even  though  it  had  been  hard  to  say 
good-bye ! 

Now  there  began  to  appear  in  the  woods  before 
the  trenches  the  figures  of  men,  at  first  scattered, 
then  becoming  steadily  more  numerous.  There 
came  men  bearing  other  men  whose  arms  lopped 
loosely.  Some  men  walked  with  a  hand  gripped 
tightly  to  an  arm;  others  hobbled  painfully.  Two 
men  sometimes  supported  a  third,  whose  head, 
heavy  and  a-droop,  would  now  and  then  be  kept 
erect  with  difficulty,  the  eyes  staring  with  a  ghastly, 
sheepish  gaze,  the  face  set  in  a  look  of  horrified  sur- 
prise. This  awful  rabble,  the  parings  of  the  de- 
feated line  in  front,  dropped  back  through  the 
woods,  dropped  back  upon  the  young  reserves,  who 


THE   PLAYERS   OF   THE   GAME  u 

lay  there  in  the  line.  Some  of  them  could  go  no 
farther,  but  fell  there  and  lay  silent.  Others  passed 
back  into  the  fields  where  droned  the  protesting 
bees,  or  where  here  and  there  a  wide  tree  offered 
shelter.  Suddenly  all  the  summer  air  was  filled 
with  anguish  and  horror.  Was  this,  then,  the 
War? 

And  now  there  appeared  yet  other  figures 
among  the  trees,  a  straggling,  broken  line,  which  fell 
back,  halted,  stood  and  fired  always  calmly,  coolly, 
at  some  unseen  thing  in  front  of  them.  But  this 
line  resolved  itself  into  individuals,  who  came  back 
to  the  edge  of  the  wood,  methodically  picking  their 
way  through  the  abattis,  climbing  the  intervening 
fences,  and  finally  clambering  into  the  earthworks 
to  take  their  places  for  the  final  stand.  They  spoke 
with  grinning  respect  of  that  which  was  out  there 
ahead,  coming  on.  They  threw  off  their  coats  and 
tightened  their  belts,  making  themselves  comfort- 
able for  what  time  there  yet  remained.  One  man 
saw  a  soldier  sitting  under  a  tree,  leaning  against 
the  trunk,  his  knees  high  in  front  of  him,  his  pipe 
between  his  lips.  Getting  no  answer  to  his  request 
for  the  loan  of  the  pipe,  he  snatched  it  without  leave, 
and  then,  discovering  the  truth,  went  on  none  the 
less  to  enjoy  the  luxury  of  a  smoke,  it  seeming  to 
him  desirable  to  compass  this  while  it  yet  remained 
among  the  possibilities  of  life. 

At  last  there  came  a  continued,  hoarse,  deep 


12        THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

cheering,  a  roaring  wave  of  menace  made  up  of 
little  sounds.  An  officer  sprang  up  to  the  top  of 
the  breastworks  and  waved  his  sword,  shouting  out 
something  which  no  one  heard  or  cared  to  hear. 
The  line  in  the  trenches,  boys  and  veterans,  reserves 
and  remnants  of  the  columns  of  defence,  rose  and 
poured  volley  after  volley,  as  they  could,  into  the 
thick  and  concealing  woods  that  lay  before  them. 
None  the  less,  there  appeared  soon  a  long,  dusty, 
faded  line,  trotting,  running,  walking,  falling, 
stumbling,  but  coming  on.  It  swept  like  a  long 
serpent  parallel  to  the  works,  writhing,  smitten  but 
surviving.  It  came  on  through  the  wood,  writh- 
ing, tearing  at  the  cruel  abattis  laid  to  entrap  it.  It 
writhed,  roared,  but  it  broke  through.  It  swept 
over  the  rail  fences  that  lay  between  the  lines  and 
the  abattis,  and  still  came  on!  This  was  not  war, 
but  Fate ! 

There  came  a  cloud  of  smoke,  hiding  the  face  of 
the  intrenchments.  Then  the  boys  of  Louisburg 
saw  bursting  through  this  suffocating  curtain  a 
few  faces,  many  faces,  long  rows  of  faces,  some 
pale,  some  red,  some  laughing,  some  horrified,  some 
shouting,  some  swearing — a  long  row  of  faces  that 
swept  through  the  smoke,  following  a  line  of  steel 
— a  line  of  steel  that  flickered,  waved,  and  dipped. 


CHAPTER   III 

THE   VICTORY 

THE  bandmaster  marshalled  his  music  at  the 
head  of  the  column  of  occupation  which  was  to 
march  into  Louisburg.  The  game  had  been  ad- 
mirably played.  The  victory  was  complete.  There 
was  no  need  to  occupy  the  trenches,  for  those 
who  lay  in  them  or  near  them  would  never  rally  for 
another  battle.  The  troops  fell  back  behind  the 
wood  through  which  they  had  advanced  on  the 
preceding  day.  They  were  to  form  upon  the  road 
which  had  been  the  key  of  the  advance,  and  then 
to  march,  horse  and  foot  in  column,  into  Louis- 
burg,  the  place  of  honour  at  the  head  being  given 
to  those  who  had  made  the  final  charge  to  the 
last  trench  and  through  the  abattis.  Gorged  with 
what  it  had  eaten,  the  dusty  serpent  was  now 
slothful  and  full  of  sleep.  There  was  no  longer 
need  for  hurry.  Before  the  middle  of  the  morning 
the  lines  would  start  on  the  march  of  the  few  short 
miles. 

During  the  delay  a  young  officer  of  engineers, 
Captain  Edward  Franklin  by  name,  asked  permis- 

13 


!4        THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

sion  of  his  colonel  to  advance  along  the  line  of 
march  until  he  came  to  the  earthworks,  to  which  he 
wished  to  give  some  examination,  joining  his  regi- 
ment as  it  passed  beyond  the  fortifications  on  its 
march.  The  colonel  gave  his  consent,  not  alto- 
gether willingly.  "  You  may  see  more  over  there 
than  you  want  to  see,  young  man,"  said  he. 

Franklin  went  on,  following  as  nearly  as  he 
could  the  line  of  the  assault  of  the  previous  day,  a 
track  all  too  boldly  marked  by  the  horrid  debris  of 
the  fight.  As  he  reached  the  first  edge  of  the  wood, 
where  the  victorious  column  had  made  its  entrance, 
it  seemed  to  him  that  there  could  have  been  no  such 
thing  as  war.  A  gray  rabbit  hopped  comfortably 
across  the  field.  Merry  squirrels  scampered  and 
scolded  in  the  trees  overhead.  The  jays  jangled  and 
bickered,  it  is  true,  but  a  score  of  sweet-voiced, 
peaceful-throated  birds  sang  bravely  and  content- 
tedly  as  though  there  had  never  been  a  sound  more 
discordant  than  their  own  speech.  The  air  was  soft 
and  sweet,  just  cold  enough  to  stir  the  leaves  upon 
the  trees  and  set  them  whispering  intimately.  The 
sky,  new  washed  by  the  rain  which  had  fallen  in  the 
night,  was  clean  and  bright  and  sweet  to  look  upon, 
and  the  sun  shone  temperately  warm.  All  about 
was  the  suggestion  of  calm  and  rest  and  happiness. 
Surely  it  had  been  a  dream!  There  could  have 
been  no  battle  here. 

This  that  had  been  a  dream  was  changed  into 


THE  VICTORY  !$ 

a  horrid  nightmare  as  the  young  officer  advanced 
into  the  wood.  About  him  lay  the  awful  evidences. 
Coats,  caps,  weapons,  bits  of  gear,  all  marked  and 
emphasized  with  many,  many  shapeless,  ghastly 
things.  Here  they  lay,  these  integers  of  the  line, 
huddled,  jumbled.  They  had  all  the  contortions, 
all  the  frozen  ultimate  agonies  left  for  survivors  to 
see  and  remember,  so  that  they  should  no  more  go 
to  war.  Again,  they  lay  so  peacefully  calm  that  all 
the  lesson  was  acclaim  for  happy,  painless  war. 
One  rested  upon  his  side,  his  arm  beneath  his  head 
as  though  he  slept.  Another  sat  against  a  tree,  his 
head  fallen  slightly  forward,  his  lax  arms  allowing 
his  hands  to  droop  plaintively,  palms  upward  and 
half  spread,  as  though  he  sat  in  utter  weariness. 
Some  lay  upon  their  backs  where  they  had  turned, 
thrusting  up  a  knee  in  the  last  struggle.  Some  lay 
face  downward  as  the  slaughtered  fall.  Many  had 
died  with  hands  open,  suddenly.  Others  sat  hud- 
dled, the  closed  hand  with  its  thumb  turned  under 
and  covered  by  the  fingers,  betokening  a  gradual 
passing  of  the  vital  spark,  and  a  slow  submission  to 
the  conqueror.  It  was  all  a  hideous  and  cruel 
dream.  Surely  it  could  be  nothing  more.  It  could 
not  be  reality.  The  birds  gurgled  and  twittered. 
The  squirrels  barked  and  played.  The  sky  was  in- 
nocent. It  must  be  a  dream. 

In  this  part  of  the  wood  the  dead  were  mingled 
from  both  sides  of  the  contest,  the  faded  blue  and 


l6        THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

the  faded  gray  sometimes  scarce  distinguishable. 
Then  there  came  a  thickening  of  the  gray,  and  in 
turn,  as  the  traveller  advanced  toward  the  fences 
and  abattis,  the  Northern  dead  predominated, 
though  still  there  were  many  faces  yellow-pale, 
dark-framed.  At  the  abattis  the  dead  lay  in  a  hor- 
rid commingling  mass,  some  hanging  forward  half 
through  the  entanglement,  some  still  in  the  attitude 
of  effort,  still  tearing  at  the  spiked  boughs,  some 
standing  upright  as  though  to  signal  the  advance. 
The  long  row  of  dead  lay  here  as  where  the  prairie 
wind  drives  rolling  weeds,  heaping  them  up  against 
some  fence  that  holds  them  back  from  farther  travel. 

Franklin  passed  over  the  abattis,  over  the  re- 
maining fences,  and  into  the  intrenchments  where 
the  final  stand  had  been.  The  dead  lay  thick, 
among  them  many  who  were  young.  Out  across 
the  broken  and  trodden  fields  there  lay  some  scat- 
tered, sodden  lumps  upon  the  ground.  Franklin 
stood  looking  out  over  the  fields,  in  the  direction  of 
the  town.  And  there  he  saw  a  sight  fitly  to  be 
called  the  ultimate  horror  of  all  these  things  hor- 
rible that  he  had  seen. 

Over  the  fields  of  Louisburg  there  came  a 
fearful  sound,  growing,  rising,  falling,  stopping 
the  singing  and  the  twitter  of  the  birds.  Across  the 
land  there  came  a  horrible  procession,  advancing 
with  short,  uncertain,  broken  pauses — a  proces- 
sion which  advanced,  paused,  halted,  broke  into 


THE  VICTORY  17 

groups;  advanced,  paused,  stopped,  and  stooped; 
a  procession  which  came  with  wailings  and  bitter 
cries,  with  wringing  of  hands,  with  heads  now  and 
then  laid  upon  the  shoulders  of  others  for  support ; 
a  procession  which  stooped  uncertainly,  horribly. 
It  was  the  women  of  Louisburg  coming  to  seek 
their  slain — a  sight  most  monstrous,  most  terrible, 
unknown  upon  any  field  of  civilized  war,  and  unfit 
to  be  tolerated  even  in  the  thought !  It  is  for  men, 
who  sow  the  fields  of  battle,  to  attend  also  to  the 
reaping. 

Franklin  stood  at  the  inner  edge  of  the  earth- 
works, half  hidden  by  a  little  clump  of  trees.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  could  not  well  escape  with- 
out being  seen,  and  he  hesitated  at  this  thought. 
Yet  as  he  stood  it  appeared  that  he  must  be  an 
intruder  even  thus  against  his  will.  He  saw  ap- 
proaching him,  slowly  but  almost  in  direct  line,  two 
figures,  an  older  lady  and  a  girl.  They  came  on, 
as  did  the  others,  always  with  that  slow,  searching 
attitude,  the  walk  broken  with  pauses  and  stoop- 
ings.  The  quest  was  but  too  obvious.  And  even 
as  Franklin  gazed,  uncertain  and  unable  to  escape, 
it  seemed  apparent  that  the  two  had  found  that 
which  they  had  sought.  The  girl,  slightly  in  ad- 
vance, ran  forward  a  few  paces,  paused,  and  then 
ran  back.  "  Oh,  there !  there ! "  she  cried.  And 
then  the  older  woman  took  the  girl's  head  upon  her 
bosom.  With  bared  head  and  his  own  hand  at  his 


1 8        THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

eyes,  Franklin  hurried  away,  hoping  himself  un- 
seen, but  bearing  indelibly  pictured  on  his  brain  the 
scene  of  which  he  had  been  witness.  He  wanted  to 
cry  out,  to  halt  the  advancing  columns  which  would 
soon  be  here,  to  tell  them  that  they  must  not  come 
upon  this  field,  made  sacred  by  such  woe. 

The  column  of  occupation  had  begun  its  move- 
ment. Far  as  the  eye  could  see,  the  way  was  filled 
with  the  Northern  troops  now  swinging  forward  in 
the  march.  Their  course  would  be  along  this  road, 
across  these  earthworks,  and  over  the  fields  between 
the  wood  and  the  town.  The  rattle  and  rumble  of 
the  advance  began.  Upon  the  morning  air  there 
rose  the  gallant  and  forgetful  music  which  bade  the 
soldier  think  not  of  what  had  been  or  would  be,  but 
only  of  the  present.  The  bugles  and  the  cymbals 
sounded  high  and  strong  in  the  notes  of  triumph. 
The  game  was  over.  The  army  was  coming  to  take 
possession  of  that  which  it  had  won. 

It  had  won — what?  Could  the  answer  be  told 
by  this  chorus  of  woe  which  arose  upon  the  field 
of  Louisburg?  Could  the  value  of  this  win- 
ning be  summed  by  the  estimate  of  these  heaps  of 
sodden,  shapeless  forms?  Here  were  the  fields, 
and  here  lay  the  harvest,  the  old  and  the  young,  the 
wheat  and  the  flower  alike  cut  down.  Was  this, 
then,  what  the  conqueror  had  won  ? 

Near  the  intrenchment  where  the  bitter  close 
had  been,  and  where  there  was  need  alike  for  note 


THE  VICTORY  19 

of  triumph  and  forgetfulness,  the  band  major  mar- 
shalled his  music,  four  deep  and  forty  strong,  and 
swung  out  into  the  anthem  of  the  flag.  The  march 
was  now  generally  and  steadily  begun.  The  head  of 
the  column  broke  from  the  last  cover  of  the  wood 
and  came  into  full  sight  at  the  edge  of  the  open 
country.  Thus  there  came  into  view  the  whole 
panorama  of  the  field,  dotted  with  the  slain  and  with 
those  who  sought  the  slain.  The  music  of  triumph 
was  encountered  by  the  concerted  voice  of  grief  and 
woe.  There  appeared  for  the  feet  of  this  army  not  a 
mere  road,  a  mere  battlefield,  but  a  ground  sacred, 
hedged  high  about,  not  rudely  to  be  violated. 

But  the  band  major  was  a  poet,  a  great  man. 
There  came  to  him  no  order  telling  him  what  he 
should  do,  but  the  thing  was  in  his  soul  that  should 
be  done.  There  came  to  him,  wafted  from  the  field 
of  sorrow,  a  note  which  was  command,  a  voice 
which  sounded  to  him  above  the  voices  of  his  own 
brasses,  above  the  tapping  of  the  kettledrums.  A 
gesture  of  command,  and  the  music  ceased  abso- 
lutely. A  moment,  and  it  had  resumed. 

The  forty  black  horses  which  made  up  this  regi- 
mental band  were  the  pride  of  the  division.  Four 
deep,  forty  strong,  with  arching  necks,  with  fore 
feet  reaching  far  and  drooping  softly,  each  horse  of 
the  famous  cavalry  band  passed  on  out  upon  the 
field  of  Louisburg  with  such  carriage  as  showed 
it  sensible  of  its  mission.  The  reins  lay  loose  upon 


20        THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

their  necks,  but  they  kept  step  to  the  music  which 
they  felt.  Forty  horses  paced  slowly  forward,  keep- 
ing step.  Forty  trumpeters,  each  man  with  his 
right  hand  aloft,  holding  his  instrument,  his  left 
hand  at  his  side,  bearing  the  cap  which  he  had 
removed,  rode  on  across  the  field  of  Louisburg. 
The  music  was  no  longer  the  hymn  of  triumph. 

Softly  and  sadly,  sweetly  and  soothingly,  the 
trumpets  sang  a  melody  of  other  days,  an  air  long 
loved  in  the  old-time  South.  And  Annie  Laurie, 
weeping,  heard  and  listened,  and  wept  the  more, 
and  blessed  God  for  her  tears ! 


BOOK   II 
THE  DAY  OF   THE  BUFFALO 


CHAPTER   IV 

BATTERSLEIGH   OF  THE   RILE   IRISH 

COLONEL  HENRY  BATTERSLEIGH  sat  in  his  tent 
engaged  in  the  composition  of  a  document  which 
occasioned  him  concern.  That  Colonel  Batters- 
leigh  should  be  using  his  tent  as  office  and  resi- 
dence— for  that  such  was  the  fact  even  the  most 
casual  glance  must  have  determined — was  for  him 
a  circumstance  offering  no  special  or  extraordinary 
features.  His  life  had  been  spent  under  canvas. 
Brought  up  in  the  profession  of  arms,  so  long  as 
fighting  and  forage  were  good  it  had  mattered  little 
to  him  in  what  clime  he  found  his  home.  He  had 
fought  with  the  English  in  India,  carried  sabre  in 
the  Austrian  horse,  and  on  his  private  account 
drilled  regiments  for  the  Grand  Sultan,  deep  within 
the  interior  of  a  country  which  knew  how  to  keep 
its  secrets.  When  the  American  civil  war  began 
he  drifted  to  the  newest  scene  of  activity  as  metal 
to  a  magnet.  Chance  sent  him  with  the  Union 

21 


22        THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

army,  and  there  he  found  opportunity  for  a  cavalry 
command.  "  A  gintleman  like  Battersleigh  of  the 
Rile  Irish  always  rides,"  he  said,  and  natural  horse- 
man as  well  as  trained  cavalryman  was  Battersleigh, 
tall,  lean,  flat-backed,  and  martial  even  under  his 
sixty  admitted  years.  It  was  his  claim  that  no 
Sudanese  spearsman  or  waddling  assegai-thrower 
could  harm  him  so  long  as  he  was  mounted  and 
armed,  and  he  boasted  that  no  horse  on  earth  could 
unseat  him.  Perhaps  none  ever  had — until  he 
came  to  the  Plains. 

For  this  was  on  the  Plains.  When  the  bitter 
tide  of  war  had  ebbed,  Battersleigh  had  found  him- 
self again  without  a  home.  He  drifted  with  the  dis- 
integrating bodies  of  troops  which  scattered  over 
the  country,  and  in  course  of  time  found  himself  in 
the  only  portion  of  America  which  seemed  to  him 
congenial.  Indeed,  all  the  population  was  adrift,  all 
the  anchors  of  established  things  torn  loose.  In 
the  distracted  South  whole  families,  detesting  the 
new  ways  of  life  now  thrust  upon  them,  and  seeing 
no  way  of  retrieving  their  fortunes  in  the  country 
which  had  borne  them,  broke  away  entirely  from 
old  associations  and  started  on  in  the  strange,  vague 
American  fashion  of  that  day,  in  a  hope  of  finding  a 
newer  and  perhaps  a  better  country.  They  moved 
by  rail,  by  boat,  by  wagon,  in  such  way  as  they 
could.  The  old  Mountain  Road  from  Virginia  was 
trodden  by  many  a  disheartened  family  who  found 


BATTERSLEIGH   OF  THE   RILE   IRISH         23 

Kentucky  also  smitten,  Missouri  and  Arkansas  no 
better.  The  West,  the  then  unknown  and  fascinat- 
ing West,  still  remained  beyond,  a  land  of  hope, 
perhaps  a  land  of  refuge.  The  men  of  the  lower 
South,  also  stirred  and  unsettled,  moved  in  long 
columns  to  the  West  and  Southwest,  following 
the  ancient  immigration  into  Texas.  The  men  of 
Texas,  citizens  of  a  crude  empire  of  unproved  re- 
sources, likewise  cast  about  them  restlessly.  Their 
cattle  must  some  day  find  a  market.  To  the  north 
of  them,  still  unknown  and  alluring,  lay  the  new 
upper  country  known  as  the  West. 

In  the  North  the  story  was  the  same.  The 
young  men,  taken  from  the  fields  and  marts  to  the 
camps  and  marches  of  the  war,  could  not  easily  re- 
turn to  the  staid  ways  of  their  earlier  life.  From 
New  England  to  Michigan,  from  Michigan  to  Min- 
nesota, many  Northern  families  began  to  move  also 
toward  that  West  which  offered  at  least  opportunity 
for  change.  Thus  there  poured  into  the  West  from 
many  different  directions,  but  chiefly  from  two 
right-angling  directions  which  intersected  on  the 
Plains,  a  diverse  population  whose  integers  were 
later  with  phenomenal  swiftness  to  merge  and 
blend.  As  in  the  war  the  boldest  fought,  so  in  emi- 
gration the  boldest  travelled,  and  the  West  had  the 
pick  of  the  land.  In  Illinois  and  Iowa,  after  the 
war  had  ended,  you  might  have  seen  a  man  in  flap- 
ping blue  army  overcoat  hewing  timber  for  fences 


24        THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

on  the  forgotten  farms,  or  guiding  the  plough 
across  the  black  reeking  sod;  but  presently  you 
must  have  also  seen  the  streams  of  white-topped 
wagons,  sequel  to  the  white  tented  fields,  moving 
on,  pushing  toward  the  West,  the  land  of  action 
and  adventure,  the  land  of  hope  and  promise. 

As  all  America  was  under  canvas,  it  was  not 
strange  that  Colonel  Battersleigh  should  find  his 
home  in  a  tent,  and  that  this  tent  should  be  pitched 
upon  the  Western  Plains.  Not  that  he  had  gone 
directly  to  the  West  after  the  mustering  out  of  his 
regiment.  To  the  contrary,  his  first  abode  had 
been  in  the  city  of  New  York,  where  during  his 
brief  stay  he  acquired  a  certain  acquaintance. 
Colonel  Battersleigh  was  always  a  striking  fig- 
ure, the  more  so  by  reason  of  his  costume,  which 
was  invariably  the  same.  His  broad  cavalry  hat, 
his  shapely  varnished  boots,  his  gauntlets,  his 
sweeping  cloak,  made  him  fairly  historic  about 
the  clubs.  His  air,  lofty,  assured,  yet  ever  suave, 
showed  that  he  classified  himself  cheerfully  as  being 
of  the  natural  aristocracy  of  the  earth.  When  Colo- 
nel Battersleigh  had  occasion  to  sign  his  name  it 
was  worth  a  dinner  to  see  the  process,  so  serious- 
ly did  he  himself  regard  it.  "  Battersleigh  "—so 
stood  the  name  alone,  unsupported  and  self-suffi- 
cient. Seeing  which  inscription  in  heavy  black 
lines,  many  a  man  wondered,  considering  that  he 
had  discovered  an  Old-World  custom,  and  joining 


BATTERSLEIGH  OF  THE  RILE  IRISH         2$ 

in  the  belief  of  the  owner  of  the  name  that  all  the 
world  must  know  the  identity  of  Battersleigh. 

What  were  the  financial  resources  of  Batters- 
leigh after  the  cessation  of  his  pay  as  a  cavalry  offi- 
cer not  even  his  best  friends  could  accurately  have 
told.  It  was  rumoured  that  he  was  the  commis- 
sioner in  America  of  the  London  Times.  He  was 
credited  with  being  a  Fellow  of  the  Royal  Geo- 
graphical Society.  That  he  had  a  history  no  one 
could  doubt  who  saw  him  come  down  the  street 
with  his  broad  hat,  his  sweeping  cloak,  his  gauntlets, 
his  neatly  varnished  boots. 

In  reality  Colonel  Henry  Battersleigh  lived, 
during  his  city  life,  in  a  small,  a  very  small  room,  up 
more  than  one  flight  of  stairs.  This  room,  no  larger 
than  a  tent,  was  military  in  its  neatness.  Batters- 
leigh, bachelor  and  soldier,  was  in  nowise  forgetful 
of  the  truth  that  personal  neatness  and  personal 
valour  go  well  hand  in  hand.  The  bed,  a  very  nar- 
row one,  had  but  meagre  covering,  and  during  the 
winter  months  its  single  blanket  rattled  to  the  touch. 
"  There's  nothing  in  the  world  so  warm  as  news- 
papers, me  boy,"  said  Battersleigh.  Upon  the 
table,  which  was  a  box,  there  was  displayed  always 
an  invariable  arrangement.  Colonel  Battersleigh's 
riding  whip  (without  which  he  was  rarely  seen  in 
public)  was  placed  upon  the  table  first.  Above  the 
whip  were  laid  the  gauntlets,  crossed  at  sixty  de- 
grees. On  top  of  whip  and  gloves  rested  the  hat, 


26        THE  GIRL  AT  THE   HALFWAY  HOUSE 

indented  never  more  nor  less.  Beyond  these,  the 
personal  belongings  of  Battersleigh  of  the  Rile 
Irish  were  at  best  few  and  humble.  In  the  big  city, 
busy  with  reviving  commerce,  there  were  few  who 
cared  how  Battersleigh  lived.  It  was  a  vagrant 
wind  of  March  that  one  day  blew  aside  the  cloak  of 
Battersleigh  as  he  raised  his  hat  in  salutation  to 
a  friend — a  vagrant  wind,  cynical  and  merciless, 
which  showed  somewhat  of  the  poverty  with  which 
Battersleigh  had  struggled  like  a  soldier  and  a  gen- 
tleman. Battersleigh,  poor  and  proud,  then  went 
out  into  the  West. 

The  tent  in  which  Colonel  Battersleigh  was  now 
writing  was  an  old  one,  yellow  and  patched  in 
places.  In  size  it  was  similar  to  that  of  the  bed- 
room in  New  York,  and  its  furnishings  were  much 
the  same.  A  narrow  bunk  held  a  bed  over  which 
there  was  spread  a  single  blanket.  It  was  silent  in 
the  tent,  save  for  the  scratching  of  the  writer's  pen ; 
so  that  now  and  then  there  might  easily  have  been 
heard  a  faint  rustling  as  of  paper.  Indeed,  this 
rustling  was  caused  by  the  small  feet  of  the  prairie 
mice,  which  now  and  then  ran  over  the  newspaper 
which  lay  beneath  the  blanket.  Battersleigh's  table 
was  again  a  rude  one,  manufactured  from  a  box. 
The  visible  seats  were  also  boxes,  two  or  three  in 
number.  Upon  one  of  these  sat  Battersleigh,  busy 
at  his  writing.  Upon  the  table  lay  his  whip,  gloves, 
and  hat,  in  exactly  the  same  order  as  that  which  had 


BATTERSLEIGH   OF   THE   RILE   IRISH          27 

been  followed  in  the  little  chamber  in  the  city.  A 
strip  of  canvas  made  a  carpet  upon  the  hard  earthen 
floor.  A  hanging  cloth  concealed  a  portion  of  the 
rear  end  of  the  tent.  Such  had  been  Battersleigh's 
quarters  in  many  climes,  under  different  flags,  some- 
times perhaps  more  luxurious,  but  nevertheless 
punctiliously  neat,  even  when  Fortune  had  left  him 
servantless,  as  had  happened  now.  Colonel  Bat- 
tersleigh  as  he  wrote  now  and  then  looked  out  of 
the  open  door.  His  vision  reached  out,  not  across 
a  wilderness  of  dirty  roads,  nor  along  a  line  of  simi- 
lar tents.  There  came  to  his  ear  no  neighing  of 
horses  nor  shouting  of  the  captains,  neither  did 
there  arise  the  din  of  the  busy,  barren  city.  He 
gazed  out  upon  a  sweet  blue  sky,  unfretted  by  any 
cloud.  His  eye  crossed  a  sea  of  faintly  waving 
grasses.  The  liquid  call  of  a  mile-high  mysterious 
plover  came  to  him.  In  the  line  of  vision  from  the 
tent  door  there  could  be  seen  no  token  of  a  human 
neighbourhood,  nor  could  there  be  heard  any  sound 
of  human  life.  The  canvas  house  stood  alone  and 
apart.  Battersleigh  gazed  out  of  the  door  as  he 
folded  his  letter.  "  It's  grand,  just  grand,"  he  said. 
And  so  he  turned  comfortably  to  the  feeding  of  his 
mice,  which  nibbled  at  his  fingers  intimately,  as 
had  many  mice  of  many  lands  with  Battersleigh. 


CHAPTER   V 

THE   TURNING   OF  THE   ROAD 

AT  the  close  of  the  war  Captain  Edward  Frank- 
lin returned  to  a  shrunken  world.  The  little  Illinois 
village  which  had  been  his  home  no  longer  served  to 
bound  his  ambitions,  but  offered  only  a  mill-round 
of  duties  so  petty,  a  horizon  of  opportunities  so  re- 
stricted, as  to  cause  in  his  mind  a  feeling  of  distress 
equivalent  at  times  to  absolute  -abhorrence.  The 
perspective  of  all  things  had  changed.  The  men 
who  had  once  seemed  great  to  him  in  this  little 
world  now  appeared  in  the  light  of  a  wider  judg- 
ment, as  they  really  were — small,  boastful,  pompous, 
cowardly,  deceitful,  pretentious.  Franklin  was  him- 
self now  a  man,  and  a  man  graduated  from  that  se- 
vere and  exacting  school  which  so  quickly  matured 
a  generation  of  American  youth.  Tall,  finely  built, 
well  set  up,  with  the  self-respecting  carriage  of  the 
soldier  and  the  direct  eye  of  the  gentleman,  there 
was  a  swing  in  his  step  not  commonly  to  be  found 
behind  a  counter,  and  somewhat  in  the  look  of  his 
grave  face  which  caused  men  to  listen  when  he 
spoke.  As  his  hand  had  fitted  naturally  a  weapon, 
28 


THE  TURNING  OF   THE  ROAD  29 

so  his  mind  turned  naturally  to  larger  things  than 
those  offered  in  these  long-tilled  fields  of  life.  He 
came  back  from  the  war  disillusionized,  irreverent, 
impatient,  and  full  of  that  surging  fretfulness  which 
fell  upon  all  the  land.  Thousands  of  young  men, 
accustomed  for  years  to  energy,  activity,  and  a 
certain  freedom  from  all  small  responsibility,  were 
thrust  back  at  once  and  asked  to  adjust  themselves 
to  the  older  and  calmer  ways  of  peace.  The  individ- 
ual problems  were  enormous  in  the  aggregate. 

Before  Franklin,  as  before  many  other  young 
men  suddenly  grown  old,  there  lay  the  necessity  of 
earning  a  livelihood,  of  choosing  an  occupation. 
The  paternal  arm  of  the  Government,  which  had 
guided  and  controlled  so  long,  was  now  withdrawn. 
The  young  man  must  think  for  himself.  He  must 
choose  his  future,  and  work  out  his  way  therein 
alone  and  unsupported.  The  necessity  of  this 
choice,  and  the  grave  responsibility  assumed  in 
choosing,  confronted  and  oppressed  Edward  Frank- 
lin as  they  did  many  another  young  man,  whose  life 
employment  had  not  been  naturally  determined  by 
family  or  business  associations.  He  stood  looking 
out  over  the  way  of  life.  There  came  to  his  soul 
that  indefinite  melancholy  known  by  the  young 
man  not  yet  acquainted  with  the  mysteries  of  life. 
Franklin  had  been  taken  away  at  the  threshold  of 
young  manhood  and  crowded  into  a  rude  curricu- 
lum, which  taught  him  reserve  as  well  as  self-confi- 


3Q       THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

dence,  but  which  robbed  him  of  part  of  the  natural 
expansion  in  experience  which  is  the  ordinary  lot 
of  youth.  He  had  seen  large  things,  and  had  be- 
come intolerant  of  the  small.  He  wished  to  achieve 
life,  success,  and  happiness  at  one  assault,  and  re- 
belled at  learning  how  stubborn  a  resistance  there 
lies  in  that  perpetual  silent  line  of  earth's  innumer- 
able welded  obstacles.  He  grieved,  but  knew  not 
why  he  grieved.  He  yearned,  but  named  no  cause. 
To  this  young  man,  ardent,  energetic,  malcon- 
tent, there  appeared  the  vision  of  wide  regions  of 
rude,  active  life,  offering  full  outlet  for  all  the  bodily 
vigour  of  a  man,  and  appealing  not  less  powerfully 
to  his  imagination.  This  West — no  man  had  come 
back  from  it  who  was  not  eager  to  return  to  it  again ! 
For  the  weak  and  slothful  it  might  do  to  remain 
in  the  older  communities,  to  reap  in  the  long-tilled 
fields,  but  for  the  strong,  for  the  unattached,  for 
the  enterprising,  this  unknown,  unexplored,  uncer- 
tain country  offered  a  scene  whose  possibilities 
made  irresistible  appeal.  For  two  years  Franklin 
did  the  best  he  could  at  reading  law  in  a  country 
office.  Every  time  he  looked  out  of  the  window  he 
saw  a  white-topped  wagon  moving  West.  Men 
came  back  and  told  him  of  this  West.  Men  wrote 
letters  from  the  West  to  friends  who  remained  in 
the  East.  Presently  these  friends  also,  seized  upon 
by  some  vast  impulse  which  they  could  not  control, 
in  turn  arranged  their  affairs  and  departed  for  the 


THE   TURNING  OF  THE  ROAD  31 

West.  Franklin  looked  about  him  at  the  squat 
buildings  of  the  little  town,  at  the  black  loam  of  the 
monotonous  and  uninviting  fields,  at  the  sordid,  set 
and  undeveloping  lives  around  him.  He  looked 
also  at  the  white  wagons  moving  with  the  sun.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  somewhere  out  in  the  vast  land 
beyond  the  Missouri  there  beckoned  to  him  a 
mighty  hand,  the  index  finger  of  some  mighty  force, 
imperative,  forbidding  pause. 

The  letter  of  Battersleigh  to  his  friend  Captain 
Franklin  fell  therefore  upon  soil  already  well  pre- 
pared. Battersleigh  and  Franklin  had  been  friends 
in  the  army,  and  their  feet  had  not  yet  wandered 
apart  in  the  days  of  peace.  Knowing  the  whimsi- 
cality of  his  friend,  and  trusting  not  at  all  in  his 
judgment  of  affairs,  Franklin  none  the  less  be- 
lieved implicitly  in  the  genuineness  of  his  friend- 
ship, and  counted  upon  his  comradeship  as  a  rally- 
ing point  for  his  beginning  life  in  the  new  land 
which  he  felt  with  strange  conviction  was  to  be 
his  future  abiding  place.  He  read  again  and  again 
the  letter  Battersleigh  had  written  him,  which,  in  its 
somewhat  formal  diction  and  informal  orthography, 
was  as  follows: 

"  To  Capt.  Edw.  Franklin,  Bloomsbury,  III. 

"  MY  DEAR  NED  :  I  have  the  honour  to  state  to 
you  that  I  am  safely  arrived  and  well-established  at 
this  place,  Ellisville,  and  am  fully  disposed  to  re- 


32        THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

main.  At  present  the  Railway  is  built  no  further 
than  this  point,  and  the  Labourers  under  charge  of 
the  Company  Engineers  make  the  most  of  the  popu- 
lation. There  is  yet  but  one  considerable  building 
completed,  a  most  surprising  thing  to  be  seen  in 
this  wild  Region.  It  is  of  stone  and  built  as  if  to 
last  forever.  It  is  large  as  a  Courthouse  of  one 
of  your  usual  Towns,  and  might  seem  absurd  in  this 
country  did  it  not  suggest  a  former  civilization  in- 
stead of  one  yet  to  come.  It  is  full  large  enough 
for  any  Town  of  several  thousand  people.  This 
is  the  property  of  the  Co.  that  is  building  the  Ry. 
It  is  said  that  the  Co.  will  equip  it  fully,  so  that 
the  country  round  about  may  depend  upon  it  for 
Rations. 

"  There  is  another  building,  intended  also  for  an 
Hotel,  but  of  a  different  sort.  This  is  called  the  Cot- 
tage, and  is  much  frequented  by  fellows  of  the  lower 
sort,  the  Labourers  and  others  now  stopping  in  this 
vicinity.  It  is  the  especial  rendezvous  of  many  men 
concerned  with  the  handling  of  Cattle.  I  must  tell 
you  that  this  is  to  be  a  great  market  for  these  West- 
ern Beeves.  Great  numbers  of  these  cattle  are  now 
coming  in  to  this  country  from  the  far  South,  and 
since  the  Ry.  is  yet  unable  to  transport  these  Ani- 
mals as  they  arrive  there  is  good  Numbers  of 
them  in  the  country  hereabout,  as  well  as  many 
strange  persons  curiously  known  as  Cowboys  or 
Cow-Punchers,  which  the  same  I  may  call  a  purely 


THE   TURNING  OF   THE   ROAD 


33 


Heathan  sort.  These  for  the  most  part  resort  at  the 
Cottage  Hotel,  and  there  is  no  peace  in  the  Town  at 
this  present  writing. 

"  For  myself  I  have  taken  entry  upon  one 
hundred  and  sixty  Acres  Govt.  Land,  and  live  a 
little  way  out  from  the  Town.  Here  I  have  my 
quarters  under  tent,  following  example  of  all  men, 
for  as  yet  there  are  scarce  a  dozen  houses  within 
fifty  Miles.  I  find  much  opportunity  for  studies  to 
be  presented  to  the  London  Times,  which  paper  as 
you  know  I  represent,  and  I  prosecute  with  great 
hopes  the  business  of  the  British  American  Coloni- 
zation Society,  of  which  corporation  I  am  resident 
Agent. 

"  I  have  Chosen  this  point  because  it  was  the 
furtherest  one  yet  reached  by  Rail.  Back  of  this, 
clean  to  the  Missouri  River,  new  Towns  have  grown 
up  in  most  wonderful  fashion.  I  have  been  advised 
that  it  is  highly  desirable  to  be  in  at  the  beginning 
in  this  Country  if  one  is  to  stay  in  the  Hunt,  there- 
fore I  have  come  to  a  Town  which  has  just  Begun. 
Believe  me,  dear  Ned,  it  is  the  beginning  of  a  World. 
Such  chances  are  here,  I  am  Sure  as  do  not  exist  in 
any  other  Land,  for  behind  this  land  is  all  the  Richer 
and  older  Parts,  which  are  but  waiting  to  pour 
money  and  men  hither  so  soon  as  the  Ry.  shall  be 
Fully  completed.  I  have  heard  of  many  men  who 
have  made  Fortunes  since  the  War.  It  is  truly  a 
rapid  Land, 
4 


34        THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

"  I  am  persuaded,  my  dear  boy,  that  this  is  the 
place  for  you  to  come.  There  are  an  Hundred  ways 
in  which  one  may  earn  a  Respectable  living,  and  I 
find  here  no  Class  Distinction.  It  is  an  extraordi- 
nary fact  that  no  man  and  no  profession  ranks  an- 
other here.  One  man  is  quite  good  as  another. 

"Of  society  I  regret  to  say  we  can  not  as  yet 
offer  you  much.  There  is  yet  but  four  women 
in  the  place  and  for  the  men  a  Part  seem  mostly 
busy  consuming  Whisky  at  the  Cottage,  at  which 
I  wonder,  for  I  have  found  the  Whisky  very  bad. 
Let  this  not  dishearten  you,  for  many  things  will 
change  when  the  Ry.  is  completed.  We  are  to 
have  Shops  here,  and  I  understand  this  is  to  be 
the  seat  of  the  county.  A  year  from  now,  as  I 
am  told,  we  shall  have  2,000  Persons  living  here, 
and  in  five  years  this  will  be  a  City.  Conceive 
the  opportunity  meantime.  The  Cattle  business  is 
bound  to  grow,  and  I  am  advised  that  all  this  land 
will  Ultimately  be  farmed  and  prove  rich  as  that 
through  which  I  Past  in  coming  out.  You  are  wel- 
come, my  dear  Ned,  as  I  am  sure  you  know,  to  half 
my  blankets  and  rations  during  your  stay  here,  how- 
ever long  same  may  be,  and  I  most  cordially  invite 
you  to  come  out  and  look  over  this  Country,  nor  do 
I  have  the  smallest  doubt  that  it  will  seem  to  you 
quite  as  it  does  to  me,  and  I  shall  hope  that  we  make 
a  Citizen  of  you. 

"  Above  all  is  this  a  man's  country.     For  sport 


THE   TURNING  OF   THE   ROAD  35 

it  has  no  equal  I  have  ever  seen,  and  as  you  know  I 
have  visited  some  Parts  of  the  World.  The  Buffa- 
loes is  to  be  found  by  Millions  within  a  few  miles  of 
this  point,  and  certain  of  the  savidge  Tribes  still  live 
but  a  short  journey  from  this  point,  though  now  the 
Army  has  pretty  much  Reduced  them.  Antelopes 
there  is  all  around  in  thousands,  and  many  Wolves. 
It  is,  indeed,  my  boy,  as  I  have  told  you,  a  country 
entirely  new.  I  have  travelled  much,  as  you  know, 
and  am  not  so  Young  as  yourself,  but  I  must  say  to 
you  that  your  friend  Batty  feels  like  a  boy  again. 
There  is  something  Strange  in  this  air.  The  sky  is 
mostly  clear,  and  the  Air  very  sweet.  The  wind  is 
steady  but  pleasant,  and  a  man  may  live  in  comfort 
the  year  round  as  I  am  told.  I  am  but  new  here  as 
yet  myself,  but  am  fully  disposed,  as  they  say  in  the 
strange  language  here,  to  drive  my  Stake.  I  want 
you,  my  dear  boy,  also  to  drive  Yours  beside  me, 
and  to  that  Effect  I  beg  to  extend  you  whatever 
Aid  may  lie  in  my  Power. 

"  Hoping  that  you  may  receive  this  communi- 
cation duly,  and  make  reply  to  Same,  and  hoping 
above  all  things  that  I  may  soon  meet  again  my 
Companion  of  the  47th.,  I  beg  to  subscribe  myself, 
my  dear  boy,  ever  your  Obdt.  &  Affect.  Friend, 

"  BATTERSLEIGH. 

"  P.  S.— Pray  Herild  your  advent  by  a  letter  & 
bring  about  4  Ibs.  or  5  Ibs.  of  your  Favourite  Tea, 
as  I  am  Short  of  Same." 


36       THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

The  letter  ended  with  Battersleigh's  best  flour- 
ish. Franklin  turned  it  over  again  and  again  in  his 
hand  and  read  it  more  than  once  as  he  pondered 
upon  its  message.  "  Dear  old  fellow,"  he  said ; 
"  he's  a  good  deal  of  a  Don  Quixote,  but  he  never 
forgets  a  friend.  Buffalo  and  Indians,  railroads  and 
hotels — it  must  at  least  be  a  land  of  contrasts !  " 


CHAPTER  VI 

EDWARD    FRANKLIN,   LAWYER 

EDWARD  FRANKLIN  had  taken  up  his  law  stud- 
ies in  the  office  of  Judge  Bradley,  the  leading 
lawyer  of  the  little  village  of  Bloomsbury,  where 
Franklin  was  born,  and  where  he  had  spent  most  of 
his  life  previous  to  the  time  of  his  enlistment  in  the 
army.  Judge  Bradley  was  successful,  as  such  mat- 
ters go  in  such  communities,  and  it  was  his  open 
boast  that  he  owed  his  success  to  himself  and  no  one 
else.  He  had  no  faith  in  such  mythical  factors  as 
circumstances  in  the  battle  of  life.  This  is  the  com- 
mon doctrine  of  all  men  who  have  arrived,  and 
Judge  Bradley  had  long  since  arrived,  in  so  far  as 
the  possibilities  of  his  surroundings  would  admit. 
His  was  the  largest  law  library  in  the  town.  He 
had  the  most  imposing  offices — a  suite  of  three 
rooms,  with  eke  a  shiny  base-burner  in  the  recep- 
tion room.  His  was  one  of  the  three  silk  hats  in 
the  town. 

Thirty-five  years  earlier,  a  raw  youth  from  old 
Vermont,  Hollis  N.  Bradley  had  walked  into  the 
embryonic  settlement  of  Bloomsbury  with  a  single 

37 


38        THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

law  book  under  his  arm,  and  naught  but  down 
upon  his  chin.  He  pleaded  his  first  cause  before  a 
judge  who  rode  circuit  over  a  territory  now  divided 
into  three  Congressional  districts.  He  won  his  first 
case,  for  his  antagonist  was  even  more  ignorant 
than  he.  As  civilization  advanced,  he  defended 
fewer  men  for  stealing  hogs,  and  more  for  murder 
and  adultery.  His  practice  grew  with  the  growth  of 
the  population  of  the  country  about  him.  He  was 
elected  county  attorney,  local  counsel  for  the  rail- 
road, and  judge  of  the  circuit  court.  He  was  men- 
tioned for  gubernatorial  honours,  and  would  per- 
haps have  received  the  party  nomination  but  for  the 
breaking  out  of  the  civil  war.  Not  fancying  the 
personal  risks  of  the  army,  he  hired  a  substitute,  and 
this  sealed  his  political  fate ;  for  Illinois  at  that  time 
did  not  put  in  power  men  who  sent  substitutes  to  the 
war.  None  the  less,  the  lands  and  moneys  of  the 
most  prominent  lawyer  of  the  place  kept  him  secure, 
and  human  memories  are  short ;  so  that,  when  Ed- 
ward Franklin  and  others  of  the  young  men  of 
Bloomsbury  returned  from  the  war,  they  saw  upon 
the  streets  of  the  little  town,  as  they  had  seen  before 
they  went  away,  the  tall  form,  the  portly  front,  the 
smooth-shaven  face,  and  the  tall  silk  hat  of  Judge 
Hollis  N.  Bradley,  who  had  in  every  sense  survived 
the  war. 

It  was  an  immemorial  custom  in  Bloomsbury 
for  the  youth  who  had  aspirations  for  a  legal  career 


EDWARD  FRANKLIN,   LAWYER  39 

to  "  read  law  "  in  Judge  Bradley's  office.  Two  of 
his  students  had  dropped  their  books  to  take  up 
rifles,  and  they  came  not  back  to  their  places.  They 
were  forgotten,  save  once  a  year,  upon  Decoration 
Day,  when  Judge  Bradley  made  eloquent  tribute 
above  their  graves.  Upon  such  times  Judge  Brad- 
ley always  shed  tears,  and  always  alluded  to  the 
tears  with  pride.  Indeed,  his  lachrymal  ability  was 
something  of  which  he  had  much  right  to  be  proud, 
it  being  well  known  in  the  legal  profession  that  one's 
fees  are  in  direct  proportion  to  his  ability  to  weep. 
Judge  Bradley  could  always  weep  at  the  right  time 
before  a  jury,  and  this  facility  won  him  many  a  case. 
Through  no  idle  whim  had  public  sentiment,  even 
after  the  incident  of  the  substitute,  confirmed  him 
in  his  position  as  the  leading  lawyer  of  Blooms- 
bury. 

It  was  therefore  predetermined  that  Edward 
Franklin  should  go  into  the  office  of  Judge  Bradley 
to  begin  his  law  studies,  after  he  had  decided  that 
the  profession  of  the  law  was  the  one  likely  to  offer 
him  the  best  career.  In  making  his  decision,  Frank- 
lin was  actuated  precisely  as  are  many  young  men 
who  question  themselves  regarding  their  career. 
He  saw  the  average  results  of  the  lives  of  others  in  a 
given  calling,  and  conceived,  without  consulting  in 
most  jealous  scrutiny  his  own  natural  fitnesses  and 
preferences,  that  he  might  well  succeed  in  that  call- 
ing because  he  saw  others  so  succeeding.  Already 


40        THE  GIRL  AT   THE  HALFWAY   HOUSE 

there  were  two  dozen  lawyers  in  Bloomsbury,  and  it 
was  to  be  questioned  whether  they  all  did  so  well  as 
had  Judge  Bradley  in  the  hog-stealing  epoch  of  the 
local  history.  Yet  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  take 
up  something  by  way  of  occupation,  and  it  resolved 
itself  somewhat  into  a  matter  of  cancellation.  For 
the  profession  of  medicine  he  had  a  horror,  ground- 
ed upon  scenes  of  contract  surgery  upon  the  fields 
of  battle.  The  ministry  he  set  aside.  From  com- 
merce, as  he  had  always  seen  it  in  his  native  town, 
twelve  hours  a  day  of  haggling  and  smirking,  he 
shrank  with  all  the  impulses  of  his  soul.  The  abject 
country  newspaper  gave  him  no  inkling  of  that 
fourth  estate  which  was  later  to  spring  up  in  the 
land.  Arms  he  loved,  but  there  was  now  no  field 
for  arms.  There  were  no  family  resources  to  tide 
him  over  the  season  of  experiment,  and,  indeed,  but 
for  a  brother  and  a  sister,  who  lived  in  an  adjoining 
farming  community,  he  had  no  relatives  to  be  con- 
sidered in  his  plans.  Perforce,  then,  Franklin  went 
into  the  law,  facing  it  somewhat  as  he  had  the  silent 
abattis,  as  with  a  duty  to  perform.  Certainly,  of  all 
students,  Judge  Bradley  had  never  had  a  hand- 
somer, a  more  mature,  or  a  more  reluctant  candi- 
date than  this  same  Edward  Franklin,  late  captain 
in  the  United  States  Army,  now  getting  well  on 
into  his  twenties,  grave,  silent,  and  preoccupied, 
perhaps  a  trifle  dreamy.  He  might  or  might  not 
be  good  material  for  a  lawyer;  as  to  that,  Judge 


EDWARD   FRANKLIN,   LAWYER  41 

Bradley  did  not  concern  himself.  Young  men 
came  into  his  office  upon  their  own  responsibility. 

It  was  one  of  the  unvarying  rules  of  Judge  Brad- 
ley's  office,  and  indeed  this  was  almost  the  only 
rule  which  he  imposed,  that  the  law  student  within 
his  gates,  no  matter  what  his  age  or  earlier  servi- 
tude, should  each  morning  sweep  out  the  office,  and 
should,  when  so  requested,  copy  out  any  law  papers 
needing  to  be  executed  in  duplicate.  So  long  as  a 
student  did  these  things,  he  was  welcome  as  long 
as  he  cared  to  stay.  The  judge  never  troubled 
himself  about  the  studies  of  his  pupil,  never  asked 
him  a  question,  indeed  never  even  told  him  what 
books  it  might  be  best  to  read,  unless  this  advice 
were  asked  voluntarily  by  the  student  himself. 
He  simply  gave  the  candidate  a  broom,  a  chair, 
and  the  freedom  of  the  library,  which  latter  was 
the  best  law  library  in  the  town.  What  more  could 
one  ask  who  contemplated  a  career  at  law?  It 
was  for  him  to  work  out  his  own  salvation ;  and  to 
sweep  the  stairs  each  morning. 

Edward  Franklin  accepted  his  seat  in  Judge 
Bradley's  office  without  any  reservations,  and  he 
paid  his  daily  fee  of  tenure  as  had  all  the  other  stu- 
dents before  him,  scorning  not  the  broom.  Indeed, 
his  conscience  in  small  things  augured  well,  for  it 
was  little  cousin  to  his  conscience  in  great  things. 
Ardent,  ambitious,  and  resolute,  he  fell  upon  Black- 
stone,  Chitty,  and  Kent,  as  though  he  were  asked  to 


42        THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

carry  a  redoubt.  He  read  six,  eight,  ten  hours  a 
day,  until  his  head  buzzed,  and  he  forgot  what  he 
had  read.  Then  at  it  all  over  again,  with  teeth  set. 
Thus  through  more  than  a  year  he  toiled,  lashed  for- 
ward by  his  own  determination,  until  at  length  he 
began  to  see  some  of  the  beautiful  first  principles  of 
the  law — that  law,  once  noble  and  beneficent,  now 
degraded  and  debased;  once  designed  for  the  pro- 
tection of  the  individual,  now  used  by  society  as  the 
instrument  for  the  individual's  extermination.  So 
in  his  second  year  Franklin  fared  somewhat  beyond 
principles  merely,  and  got  into  notes  and  bills,  torts, 
contracts,  and  remedies.  He  learned  with  a  shiver 
how  a  promise  might  legally  be  broken,  how  a  gift 
should  be  regarded  with  suspicion,  how  a  sacred 
legacy  might  be  set  aside.  He  read  these  things 
again  and  again,  and  forced  them  into  his  brain,  so 
that  they  might  never  be  forgotten;  yet  this  part 
of  the  law  he  loved  not  so  much  as  its  grand  first 
principles  of  truth  and  justice. 

One  morning,  after  Franklin  had  finished  his 
task  of  sweeping  down  the  stairs,  he  sat  him  down 
by  the  window  with  Battersleigh's  letter  in  his  hand ; 
for  this  was  now  the  third  day  since  he  had  received 
this  letter,  and  it  had  been  in  his  mind  more  vividly 
present  than  the  pages  of  the  work  on  contracts 
with  which  he  was  then  occupied.  It  was  a  bright, 
fresh  morning  in  the  early  spring.  A  little  bird  was 
singing  somewhere  near  the  window.  From  where 


EDWARD   FRANKLIN,   LAWYER  43 

Franklin  sat  he  could  see  the  green  grass  just  start- 
ing, over  in  the  courthouse  yard.  A  long  and  lazy 
street  lay  in  perspective  before  the  window,  and 
along  it,  out  beyond  the  confines  of  the  town,  there 
reached  the  flat  monotony  of  the  dark  prairie  soil. 
The  leaves  of  the  soft  maples  were  beginning  to 
show  over  there,  near  the  village  church.  A  dog 
crossed  the  street,  pausing  midway  of  the  crossing 
to  scratch  his  ear.  The  cart  of  the  leading  grocer 
was  hitched  in  front  of  his  store,  and  an  idle  citizen 
or  two  paused  near  by  to  exchange  a  morning  greet- 
ing. All  the  little,  uneventful  day  was  beginning, 
as  it  had  begun  so  many  times  before  here  in  this 
little,  uneventful  town,  where  the  world  was  fin- 
ished, never  more  to  change.  Franklin  shuddered. 
Was  this,  then,  to  be  his  life?  He  turned  to  the 
rows  of  scuffed-backed  law  books  on  their  shelves. 
Then  he  turned  again  to  his  letter,  and  to  the 
window,  and  to  the  birds  and  the  grass.  He  caught 
himself  noting  how  long  the  dog's  hind  leg  looked, 
how  impossible  the  angle  between  the  fore  leg  and 
the  spine,  as  it  half  sat  in  flea-compelled  contortions. 
There  came  a  regular  tread  upon  the  stair,  as 
there  had  always  for  years  come  at  this  hour  of  half 
past  seven  in  the  morning,  rain  or  shine.  Judge 
Bradley  entered,  tall,  portly,  smooth  shaven,  his 
silk  hat  pushed  back  upon  his  brow,  as  was  his  fash- 
ion. Franklin  turned  to  make  the  usual  morning 
salutation. 


44        THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

"  Good-morning,  Ned,"  said  the  judge,  affably. 

"  Good-morning,  judge,"  said  Franklin.  "  I 
hope  you  are  well." 

"  Yes,  thank  you.  Nothing  ever  the  matter 
with  me.  How  are  things  coming?  " 

"  Oh,  all  right,  thank  you." 

This  was  the  stereotyped  form  of  the  daily  greet- 
ing between  the  two.  Judge  Bradley  turned  as 
usual  to  his  desk,  but,  catching  sight  of  the  letter 
still  held  in  Franklin's  hand,  remarked  carelessly : 

"  Got  a  letter  from  your  girl  ?  " 

"Not  so  lucky,"  said  Franklin.  "From  a 
friend." 

Silence  resulted.  Judge  Bradley  opened  his 
desk,  took  off  his  coat  and  hung  it  on  a  nail,  after 
his  custom,  thereafter  seating  himself  at  his  desk, 
with  the  official  cough  which  signified  that  the 
campaign  of  the  day  had  begun.  He  turned  over 
the  papers  for  a  moment,  and  remarked  absent- 
mindedly,  and  more  to  be  polite  than  because  the 
matter  interested  him,  "  Friend,  eh  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Franklin,  "  friend,  out  West " ;  and 
both  relapsed  again  into  silence.  Franklin  once 
more  fell  to  gazing  out  of  the  window,  but  at  length 
turned  toward  the  desk  and  pulled  over  his  chair  to 
a  closer  speaking  distance. 

"  Judge  Bradley,"  said  he,  "  I  shouldn't  wonder 
if  I  could  pass  my  examination  for  the  bar." 

"  Well,  now,"  said  the  judge,  "  I  hope  you  can. 


EDWARD   FRANKLIN,   LAWYER  45 

That's  nice.  Coin'  to  hang  out  your  own  shingle, 
eh?" 

"  I  might,  if  I  got  my  license." 

"  Oh,  that's  easy,"  replied  the  other;  "  it's  most- 
ly a  matter  of  form.  The  court'll  appoint  a  com- 
mittee of  three  members  of  the  bar,  an'  they'll  tell 
you  when  they  want  to  see  you  for  the  circus — some 
evening  after  court.  They'll  ask  you  where  you've 
been  readin'  law,  an'  for  how  long.  If  you  tell  'em 
you've  read  in  my  office,  it'll  be  all  right.  I  never 
knew  'em  to  fail  to  pass  a  student  that  had  read 
with  me — it  wouldn't  be  professional  courtesy  to 
me.  You'll  go  through  all  right,  don't  worry.  You 
want  to  post  up  on  a  few  such  questions  as,  'What  is 
the  law  ?  '  and  '  What  are  the  seven — or  is  it  eight  ? 
— forms  of  actions  at  law  ? '  Then  you  want  to  be 
able  to  answer  on  *  What  was  the  rule  in  Shelley's 
Case  ? '  There's  sure  to  be  some  fool  or  other  that'll 
ask  you  that  question,  just  to  show  off — I  don't 

remember  what  the  d d  thing  is  myself — and 

you'll  never  hear  of  it  again;  but  you  get  fixed  to 
answer  them  three  questions,  an'  you  can  be  admit- 
ted to  the  bar  all  right  anywhere  in  the  State  of  Illi- 
nois, or  leastways  in  this  county.  Then  it's  cus- 
tomary for  a  fellow  just  admitted  to  the  bar  to  have 
a  little  jug  around  at  his  office  before  court  adjourns 
— just  to  comply  with  a  professional  custom,  you 
know.  No  trouble  about  it — not  in  the  least.  I'll 
see  you  through." 


46        THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

"  I  am  clear  in  my  own  mind  that  I  don't  know 
much  about  the  law,"  said  Franklin,  "  and  I  should 
not  think  of  going  up  for  examination  if  that  ended 
my  studies  in  tlie  profession.  If  I  were  intending  to 
go  into  practice  here,  sir,  or  near  by,  I  should  not 
think  of  applying  for  admission  for  at  least  another 
year.  But  the  fact  is,  I'm  thinking  of  going  away." 

"  Coin'  away  ?  "  Judge  Bradley  straightened 
up,  and  his  expression  if  anything  was  one  of  relief. 
He  had  had  his  own  misgivings  about  this  grave- 
faced  and  mature  young  man  should  he  go  into 
the  practice  at  the  Bloomsbury  bar.  It  was  well 
enough  to  encourage  such  possibilities  to  take  their 
test  in  some  other  locality.  Judge  Bradley  there- 
fore became  more  cheerful.  "  Coin'  away,  eh  ?  "  he 
said.  "Where  to?" 

"  Out  West,"  said  Franklin,  unconsciously  re- 
peating the  phrase  which  was  then  upon  the  lips  of 
all  the  young  men  of  the  country. 

"Out  West,  eh?"  said  the  judge,  with  still 
greater  cheerfulness.  "  That's  right,  that's  right. 
That's  the  place  to  go  to,  where  you  can  get  a  bet- 
ter chance.  I  came  West  in  my  day  myself,  though 
it  isn't  West  now;  an'  that's  how  I  got  my  start. 
There's  ten  chances  out  there  to  where  there's  one 
here,  an'  you'll  get  better  pay  for  what  you  do.  I'd 
advise  it,  sir — I'd  advise  it ;  yes,  indeed." 

"  I  think  it  will  be  better,"  said  Franklin  calmly. 

"  Hate  to  lose  you,"  said  the  judge,  politely — 


EDWARD   FRANKLIN,   LAWYER  47 

"  hate  to  lose  you,  of  course,  but  then  a  young  man's 
got  to  make  his  way ;  he's  got  to  get  his  start." 

Franklin  sat  silent  for  a  few  moments,  musingly 
staring  out  of  the  window,  and  listening,  without 
active  consciousness  of  the  fact,  to  the  music  of  the 
singing  bird  which  came  from  somewhere  without. 
At  length  he  rose  and  turned  toward  the  elder  man. 
"  If  you  please,  judge/'  said  he,  "  get  the  committee 
appointed  for  to-night  if  you  can.  I'll  take  the  ex- 
amination now." 

"  Yes  ?     You  are  in  a  hurry !  " 

"  Then  to-morrow  I'll  go  over  and  say  good-bye 
to  my  sister;  and  the  next  day  I  think  I'll  follow 
the  wagons  West.  I've  not  much  to  put  in  a 
wagon,  so  I  can  go  by  rail.  The  road's  away  west 
of  the  Missouri  now,  and  my  letter  comes  from  the 
very  last  station,  at  the  head  of  the  track." 

"So?"  said  the  judge.  "Well,  that  ought  to 
be  far  enough,  sure,  if  you  go  clean  to  the  jumping- 
off  place.  Coin'  to  leave  your  sweetheart  behind 
you,  eh?" 

Franklin  laughed.  "  Well,  I  don't  need  face 
that  hardship,"  said  he,  "  for  I  haven't  any  sweet- 
heart." 

"  Ought  to  have,"  said  the  judge.  "  You're  old 
enough.  I  was  just  twenty-two  years  old  when  I 
was  married,  an'  I  had  just  one  hundred  dollars  to 
my  name.  I  sent  back  to  Vermont  for  my  sweet- 
heart, an'  she  came  out,  an'  we  were  married  right 


48        THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

here.  I  couldn't  afford  to  go  back  after  her,  so  she 
came  out  to  me.  An'  I  reckon,"  added  he,  with  a 
sense  of  deep  satisfaction,  "  that  she  hasn't  never 
regretted  it." 

"  Well,  I  don't  see  how  love  and  law  can  go  to- 
gether," said  Franklin  sagely. 

"  They  don't,"  said  the  judge  tersely.  "  When 
you  get  so  that  you  see  a  girl's  face  a-settin'  on  the 
page  of  your  law  book  in  front  of  you,  the  best  thing 
you  can  do  is  to  go  marry  the  girl  as  quick  as  the 
Lord'll  let  you.  It  beats  the  world,  anyhow,  how 
some  fellows  get  mixed  up,  and  let  a  woman  hinder 
'em  in  their  work.  Now,  in  my  case,  I  never  had 
any  such  a  trouble." 

"  And  I  hope  I  never  shall,"  said  Franklin. 

"  Well,  see  that  you  don't.  You  hit  it  close 
when  you  said  that  love  an'  law  don't  go  together. 
Don't  try  to  study  'em  both  at  the  same  time ;  that's 
my  advice,  an'  I  don't  charge  you  anything  for  it, 
seeing  it's  you."  With  a  grin  at  his  little  jest, 
Judge  Bradley  turned  back  to  his  desk  and  to  his 
little  world. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE     NEW    WORLD 

FRANKLIN  crossed  the  Missouri  River,  that 
dividing  stream  known  to  a  generation  of  Western 
men  simply  as  "  the  River,"  and  acknowledged  as 
the  boundary  between  the  old  and  the  new,  the 
known  and  the  untried.  He  passed  on  through 
well-settled  farming  regions,  dotted  with  prosper- 
ous towns.  He  moved  still  with  the  rolling  wheels 
over  a  country  which  showed  only  here  and  there 
the  smoke  of  a  rancher's  home.  Not  even  yet  did 
the  daring  flight  of  the  railway  cease.  It  came  into 
a  land  wide,  unbounded,  apparently  untracked  by 
man,  and  seemingly  set  beyond  the  limit  of  man's 
wanderings.  Far  out  in  the  heart  of  this  great  gray 
wilderness  lay  the  track-end  of  this  railroad  pushing 
across  the  continent.  When  Franklin  descended 
from  the  rude  train  he  needed  no  one  to  tell  him 
he  had  come  to  Ellisville.  He  was  at  the  limit,  the 
edge,  the  boundary !  "  Well,  friend,"  s'aid  the  fire- 
man, who  was  oiling  the  engine  as  he  passed,  and 
who  grinned  amiably  as  he  spoke,  "  you're  sure  at 
the  front  now." 

49 


50       THE  GIRL  AT   THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

Franklin  had  not  advised  his  friend  Battersleigh 
of  his  intended  arrival,  but  as  he  looked  about  him 
he  saw  that  he  had  little  need  for  any  guide. 

Ellisville  as  an  actual  town  did  not  yet  exist.  A 
rude  shanty  or  two  and  a  line  of  tents  indicated  the 
course  of  a  coming  street.  The  two  hotels  men- 
tioned by  Battersleigh  were  easily  recognised,  and 
indeed  not  to  be  evaded.  Out  of  the  middle  of  this 
vast,  treeless  plain  the  great  stone  hotel  arose,  with 
no  visible  excuse  or  palliation,  a  deliberate  affront 
to  the  solitude  which  lay  far  and  wide  about.  Even 
less  within  the  bounds  of  reason  appeared  the  wood- 
en building  which  Franklin  learned  was  the  Cottage. 
"  Surely,"  thought  he,  "  if  the  railroad  company  had 
been  mad  in  building  the  stone  hotel,  much  worse 
must  have  been  the  man  who  erected  this  rambling 
wooden  structure,  hoping  for  customers  who  must 
come  a  thousand  miles."  Yet  was  this  latter  mad 
act  justified  before  his  very  eyes.  The  customers 
had  come.  More  than  forty  cow  ponies  stood  in 
the  Cottage  corral  or  in  the  street  near  by.  Afar 
there  swelled  the  sound  of  morning  revelries. 

Franklin  wanted  breakfast,  and  instinctively 
turned  toward  the  stone  hotel  at  the  depot,  where 
he  learned  were  quartered  the  engineers  and  con- 
tractors on  the  railroad  work.  He  seated  himself  at 
one  of  the  many  tables  in  the  vast,  barren  dining 
room.  Half  the  attendants  were  haughty  young 
women,  and  half  rather  slovenly  young  men. 


THE  NEW  WORLD  5! 

Franklin  fell  under  the  care  of  one  of  the  latter,  who 
greeted  him  with  something  of  the  affection  of  an 
old  acquaintance.  Coming  to  the  side  of  his  chair, 
and  throwing  an  arm  carelessly  across  Franklin's 
shoulder,  the  waiter  asked  in  a  confidential  tone  of 
voice,  "  Well,  Cap,  which'll  you  have,  hump  or 
tongue  ?  "  Whereby  Franklin  discovered  that  he 
was  now  upon  the  buffalo  range,  and  also  at  the 
verge  of  a  new  etiquette. 

After  breakfast  Franklin  paused  for  a  moment  at 
the  hotel  office,  almost  as  large  and  empty  as  the 
dining  room.  Different  men  now  and  then  came 
and  passed  him  by,  each  seeming  to  have  some 
business  of  his  own.  The  clerk  at  the  hotel  asked 
him  if  he  wanted  to  locate  some  land.  Still  another 
stranger,  a  florid  and  loosely  clad  young  man  with 
a  mild  blue  eye,  approached  him  and  held  some 
converse. 

"  Mornin',  friend,"  said  the  young  man. 

"  Good-morning,"  said  Franklin. 

"  I  allow  you're  just  in  on  the  front,"  said  the 
other. 

"Yes,"  said  Franklin,  "I  came  on  the  last 
train." 

"Stay  long?" 

"Well,  as  to  that,"  said  Franklin,  "I  hardly 
know,  but  I  shall  look  around  a  bit." 

"  I  didn't  know  but  maybe  you'd  like  to  go 
south  o'  here,  to  Plum  Centre.  I  run  the  stage  line 


52        THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

down  there,  about  forty-six  miles,  twict  a  week. 
That's  my  livery  barn  over  there — second  wooden 
building  in  the  town.  Sam's  my  name ;  Sam  Pos- 
ton." 

"  I  never  heard  of  Plum  Centre,"  said  Franklin, 
with  some  amusement.  "  Is  it  as  large  a  place  as 
this?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Sam  hurriedly,  "  not  nigh  as 
large  as  this,  but  it's  a  good  town,  all  right.  Lots 
on  the  main  street  there  sold  for  three  hundred  dol- 
lars last  week.  You  see,  old  man  Plum  has  got  it 
figgered  out  that  his  town  is  right  in  the  middle  of 
the  United  States,  ary  way  you  measure  it.  We 
claim  the  same  thing  for  Ellisville,  and  there  you 
are.  We've  got  the  railroad,  and  they've  got  my 
stage  line.  There  can't  no  one  tell  yet  which  is 
goin'  to  get  the  bulge  on  the  other.  If  you  want 
to  go  down  there,  come  over  and  I'll  fix  you  up." 

Franklin  replied  that  he  would  be  glad  to  do  so 
in  case  he  had  the  need,  and  was  about  to  turn  away. 
He  was  interrupted  by  the  other,  who  stopped  him 
with  an  explosive  "  Say !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Franklin. 

"  Did  you  notice  that  girl  in  the  dining  room, 
pony-built  like,  slick,  black-haired,  dark  eyes — 
wears  glasses?  Say,  that's  the  smoothest  girl  west 
of  the  river.  She's  waitin',  in  the  hotel  here,  but 
say  "  (confidentially),  "  she  taught  school  onct — yes, 
sir.  You  know,  I'm  gone  on  that  girl  the  worst  way. 


THE   NEW  WORLD  53 

If  you  get  a  chanct  to  put  in  a  word  for  me,  you  do 
it,  won't  you  ?  " 

Franklin  was  somewhat  impressed  with  the 
swiftness  of  acquaintanceships  and  of  general  affairs 
in  this  new  land,  but  he  retained  his  own  tactfulness 
and  made  polite  assurances  of  aid  should  it  become 
possible. 

"  I'd  be  mightily  obliged,"  said  his  new-found 
friend.  "  Seems  like  I  lose  my  nerve  every  time  I 
try  to  say  a  word  to  that  girl.  Now,  I  plum  forgot 
to  ast  you  which  way  you  was  goin'.  Do  you  want 
a  team  ?  " 

"Thank  you,"  said  Franklin,  "but  I  hardly 
think  so.  I  want  to  find  my  friend  Colonel  Batters- 
leigh,  and  I  understand  he  lives  not  very  far  away/' 

"  Oh,  you  mean  old  Batty.  Yes,  he  lives  just 
out  south  a  little  ways — Section  No.  9,  southeast 
quarter.  I  suppose  you  could  walk." 

"  I  believe  I  will  walk,  if  you  don't  mind,"  said 
Franklin.  "  It  seems  very  pleasant,  and  I  am  tired 
of  riding." 

"  All  right,  so  long,"  said  Sam.  "  Don't  you 
forgit  what  I  told  you  about  that  Nora  girl." 

Franklin  passed  on  in  the  direction  which  had 
been  pointed  out  to  him,  looking  about  him  at 
the  strange,  new  country,  in  which  he  felt  the  pro- 
prietorship of  early  discovery.  He  drew  in  deep 
breaths  of  an  air  delightfully  fresh,  squaring  his 
shoulders  and  throwing  up  his  head  instinctively  as 


54        THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

he  strode  forward.  The  sky  was  faultlessly  clear. 
The  prospect  all  about  him,  devoid  as  it  was  of 
variety,  was  none  the  less  abundantly  filling  to  the 
eye.  Far  as  the  eye  could  reach  rolled  an  illimit- 
able, tawny  sea.  The  short,  harsh  grass  near  at 
hand  he  discovered  to  be  dotted  here  and  there  with 
small,  gay  flowers.  Back  of  him,  as  he  turned  his 
head,  he  saw  a  square  of  vivid  green,  which  water 
had  created  as  a  garden  spot  of  grass  and  flowers  at 
the  stone  hotel.  He  did  not  find  this  green  of  civili- 
zation more  consoling  or  inspiring  than  the  natural 
colour  of  the  wild  land  that  lay  before  him.  For 
the  first  time  in  his  life  he  looked  upon  the  great 
Plains,  and  for  the  first  time  felt  their  fascination. 
There  came  to  him  a  subtle,  strange  exhilaration. 
A  sensation  of  confidence,  of  certainty,  arose  in  his 
heart.  He  trod  as  a  conqueror  upon  a  land  new 
taken.  All  the  earth  seemed  happy  and  care-free. 
A  meadow  lark  was  singing  shrilly  high  up  in  the 
air;  another  lark  answered,  clanking  contentedly 
from  the  grass,  whence  in  the  bright  air  its  yellow 
breast  showed  brilliantly. 

As  Franklin  was  walking  on,  busy  with  the  im- 
pressions of  his  new  world,  he  became  conscious  of 
rapid  hoof-beats  coming  up  behind  him,  and  turned 
to  see  a  horseman  careering  across  the  open  in  his 
direction,  with  no  apparent  object  in  view  beyond 
that  of  making  all  the  noise  possible  to  be  made 
by  a  freckled-faced  cowboy  who  had  been  up  all 


THE  NEW  WORLD  55 

night,  but  still  had  some  vitality  which  needed 
vent. 

"  Eeeeee-yow-heeeeee ! "  yelled  the  cowboy, 
both  spurring  and  reining  his  supple,  cringing 
steed.  "  Eeeeeee-yip-yeeeee !  "  Thus  vociferating, 
he  rode  straight  at  the  footman,  with  apparently 
the  deliberate  wish  to  ride  him  down.  He  wist 
not  that  the  latter  had  seen  cavalry  in  his  day, 
and  was  not  easily  to  be  disconcerted,  and,  find- 
ing that  he  failed  to  create  a  panic,  he  pulled 
up  with  the  pony's  nose  almost  over  Franklin's 
shoulder. 

"  Hello,  stranger,"  cried  the  rider,  cheerfully; 
"  where  are  you  goin',  this  bright  an'  happy  morn- 
in'  ?  " 

Franklin  was  none  too  pleased  at  the  method  of 
introduction  selected  by  this  youth,  but  a  look  at  his 
open  and  guileless  face  forbade  the  thought  of  of- 
fence. The  cowboy  sat  his  horse  as  though  he  was 
cognizant  of  no  such  creature  beneath  him.  His 
hand  was  held  high  and  wabbling  as  he  bit  off  a 
chew  from  a  large  tobacco  plug  the  while  he  jogged 
alongside. 

Franklin  made  no  immediate  reply,  and  the  cow- 
boy resumed. 

"Have  a  chaw?"  he  said  affably,  and  looked 
surprised  when  Franklin  thanked  him  but  did  not 
accept. 

"Where's  yore  hoss,  man?"    asked  the  new- 


56        THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

comer  with  concern.  "  Where  you  goin',  headin* 
plum  south,  an'  'thout  no  hoss  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Franklin,  smiling,  "  I'm  not  going 
far ;  only  over  south  a  mile  or  so.  I  want  to  find  a 
friend,  Colonel  Battersleigh.  I  think  his  place  is 
only  a  mile  or  so  from  here." 

"  Sure,"  said  the  cowboy.  "  Old  Batty— I  know 
him.  He  taken  up  a  quarter  below  here.  Ain't  got 
his  shack  up  yet.  But  say,  that's  a  full  mile  from 
yer.  You  ain't  goin'  to  walk  a  mile,  are  you  ?  " 

"  I've  walked  a  good  many  thousand  miles," 
said  Franklin,  "  and  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  I  could 
get  over  this  one." 

"  They's  all  kind  of  fools  in  the  world,"  said 
the  rider  sagely,  and  with  such  calm  conviction  in 
his  tone  that  again  Franklin  could  not  take  offence. 
They  progressed  a  time  in  silence. 

"  Say,"  said  the  cowboy,  after  a  time — "  say,  I 
reckon  I  kin  lick  you." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  "  said  Franklin  calmly,  pull- 
ing up  his  shoulders  and  feeling  no  alarm. 

"  Shorely  I  do,"  said  the  other ;  "  I  reckon  I  kin 
lick  you,  er  beat  you  shootin',  er  throw  you  down." 

"  Friend,"  said  Franklin  judicially,  "  I  have  a 
good  many  doubts  about  your  being  able  to  do  all 
that.  But  before  we  take  it  up  any  further  I  would 
like  to  ask  you  something." 

"Well,  whut?" 

"  I'd  just  like  to  ask  you  what  makes  you  tell 


THE   NEW  WORLD 


57 


me  that,  when  I'm  a  perfect  stranger  to  you,  and 
when  perhaps  you  may  never  see  me  again  ?  " 

"  Well,  now,"  said  the  cowboy,  pushing  back  his 
hat  and  scratching  his  head  thoughtfully,  "  blame  if 
I  know  why,  but  I  just  lowed  I  could,  sorter.  An* 
I  kin!" 

"But  why?" 

"  Say,  you're  the  d dest  feller  I  ever  did  see. 

You  got  to  have  a  reason  f er  everything  on  earth  ?  " 
His  tone  became  more  truculent.  "  First  place,  'f  I 
didn't  have  no  other  reason,  I  kin  lick  ary  man  on 
earth  that  walks." 

"  Friend,"  said  Franklin,  "  get  down  off  that 
horse,  and  I'll  give  you  a  little  wrestle  to  see  who 
rides.  What's  your  name,  anyhow  ?  " 

"Whoa!"  said  the  other.  "Name's  Curly." 
He  was  on  the  ground  as  he  said  this  last,  and 
throwing  the  bridle  over  the  horse's  head.  The 
animal  stood  as  though  anchored.  Curly  cast  his 
hat  upon  the  ground  and  trod  upon  it  in  a  sort  of 
ecstasy  of  combat.  He  rushed  at  Franklin  without 
argument  or  premeditation. 

The  latter  had  not  attended  country  school  for 
nothing.  Stepping  lightly  aside,  he  caught  his 
ready  opponent  as  he  passed,  and,  with  one  arm 
about  his  neck,  gave  him  a  specimen  of  the  "  hip- 
lock  "  which  sent  him  in  the  air  over  his  own  shoul- 
der. The  cowboy  came  down  much  in  a  heap,  but 
presently  sat  up,  his  hair  somewhat  rumpled  and 


58        THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

sandy.  He  rubbed  his  head  and  made  sundry  ex- 
clamations of  surprise.  "  Huh !  "  said  he.  "  Well, 

I'm  d d !  Now,  how  you  s'pose  that  happened  ? 

You  kain't  do  that  again,"  he  said  to  Franklin, 
finally. 

"  Shouldn't  wonder  if  I  could,"  said  Franklin, 
laughing. 

"  Look  out  fer  me — I'm  a-comin' !  "  cried 
Curly. 

They  met  more  fairly  this  time,  and  Franklin 
found  that  he  had  an  antagonist  of  little  skill  in 
the  game  of  wrestling,  but  of  a  surprising  wiry, 
bodily  strength.  Time  and  again  the  cowboy 
writhed  away  from  the  hold,  and  came  back  again 
with  the  light  of  battle  in  his  eye.  It  was  only  after 
several  moments  that  he  succumbed,  this  time  to 
the  insidious  "  grapevine."  He  fell  so  sharply  that 
Franklin  had  difficulty  in  breaking  free  in  order  not 
to  fall  upon  him.  The  cowboy  lay  prone  for  a  mo- 
ment, then  got  up  and  dusted  off  his  hat. 

"  Mount,  friend,"  said  he,  throwing  the  bridle 
back  over  the  horse's  neck  without  other  word. 
"You  done  it  fair!" 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do,"  said  Franklin,  ex- 
tending his  hand.  "  We'll  just  both  walk  along  to- 
gether a  way,  if  you  don't  mind.  I'll  get  me  a  horse 
pretty  soon.  You  see,  I'm  a  new  man  here — just 
got  in  this  morning,  and  I  haven't  had  time  to  look 
around  much  yet.  I  thought  I'd  go  out  and  meet 


THE  NEW  WORLD  59 

my  friend,  and  perhaps  then  we  could  talk  over  such 
things  together." 

"Shore,"  said  Curly.  "Why  didn't  you  tell 
me?  Say,  ole  Batty,  he's  crazy  to  ketch  a  whole 
lot  o'  hosses  out'n  a  band  o'  wild  hosses  down  to 
the  Beaver  Creek.  He  always  a-wantin'  me  to  help 
him  ketch  them  hosses.  Say,  he's  got  a  lot  o'  sassa- 
fiddity,  somethin'  like  that,  an'  he  says  he's  goin'  to 
soak  some  corn  in  that  stuff  an'  set  it  out  fer  hosses. 
Says  it'll  make  'em  loco,  so'st  you  kin  go  right  up 

an'  rope  'em.  Now,  ain't  that  the  d dest  fool 

thing  yet  ?  Say,  some  o'  these  pilgrims  that  comes 
out  here  ain't  got  sense  enough  to  last  over 
night." 

"  Battersleigh  is  fond  of  horses,"  said  Franklin, 
"  and  he's  a  rider,  too." 

"That's  so,"  admitted  Curly.  "He  kin  ride. 
"  You  orter  see  him  when  he  gits  his  full  outfit  on, 
sword  an'  pistol  by  his  side,  uh-huh !  " 

"  He  has  a  horse,  then?" 

"  Has  a  hoss?  Has  a  hoss — has — what?  Why, 
o'  course  he  has  a  hoss.  Is  there  anybody  that 
ain't  got  a  hoss  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  haven't,"  said  Franklin. 

"  You  got  this  one,"  said  Curly. 

"  How  ?  "  said  Frank,  puzzled. 

"  Why,  you  won  him." 

"  Oh,  pshaw !  "  said  Franklin.  "  Nonsense !  I 
wasn't  wrestling  for  your  horse,  only  for  a  ride.  Be- 


60        THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

sides,  I  didn't  have  any  horse  put  up  against  yours. 
I  couldn't  lose  anything." 

"  That's  so,"  said  Curly.  "  I  hadn't  thought  of 
that.  Say,  you  seem  like  a  white  sort  o'  feller.  Tell 
you  what  I'll  just  do  with  you.  O'  course,  I  was 
thinkin'  you'd  win  the  whole  outfit,  saddle  an'  all.  I 
think  a  heap  o'  my  saddle,  an'  long's  you  ain't  got 
no  saddle  yet  that  you  have  got  used  to,  like,  it 
don't  make  much  difference  to  you  if  you  get  an- 
other saddle.  But  you  just  take  this  here  hoss 
along.  No,  that's  all  right.  I  kin  git  me  another 
back  to  the  corral,  just  as  good  as  this  one.  Jim 
Parsons,  feller  on  the  big  bunch  o'  cows  that  come 
up  from  the  San  Marcos  this  spring,  why,  he  got 
killed  night  before  last.  I'll  just  take  one  o'  his 
hosses,  I  reckon.  I  kin  fix  it  so'st  you  kin  git  his 
saddle,  if  you  take  a  notion  to  it." 

Franklin  looked  twice  to  see  if  there  was  affecta- 
tion in  this  calm  statement,  but  was  forced,  with  a 
certain  horror,  to  believe  that  his  new  acquaintance 
spoke  of  this  as  a  matter  of  fact,  and  as  nothing 
startling.  He  had  made  no  comment,  when  he  was 
prevented  from  doing  so  by  the  exclamation  of  the 
cowboy,  who  pointed  out  ahead. 

"There's  Batty's  place,"  said  he,  "an'  there's 
Batty  himself.  Git  up,  quick;  git  up,  an'  ride  in 
like  a  gentleman.  It's  bad  luck  to  walk." 

Franklin  laughed,  and,  taking  the  reins,  swung 
himself  into  the  saddle  with  the  ease  of  the  cavalry 


THE  NEW  WORLD  6l 

mount,  though  with  the  old-fashioned  grasp  at  the 
cantle,  with  the  ends  of  the  reins  in  his  right  hand. 

"  Well,  that's  a  d d  funny  way  gittin'  on  top 

of  a  hoss,"  said  Curly.  "  Are  you  'fraid  the  saddle's 
goin'  to  git  away  from  you  ?  Better  be  'fraid  'bout 
the  hoss. — Git  up,  Bronch !  " 

He  slapped  the  horse  on  the  hip  with  his  hat, 
and  gave  the  latter  a  whirl  in  the  air  with  a  shrill 
"  Whoooop-eee ! "  which  was  all  that  remained 
needful  to  set  the  horse  off  on  a  series  of  wild, 
stiff-legged  plunges — the  "bucking"  of  which 
Franklin  had  heard  so  much;  a  manoeuvre  pe- 
culiar to  the  half-wild  Western  horses,  and  one 
which  is  at  the  first  experience  a  desperately  diffi- 
cult one  for  even  a  skilful  horseman  to  overcome. 
It  perhaps  did  not  occur  to  Curly  that  he  was  inflict- 
ing any  hardship  upon  the  newcomer,  and  perhaps 
he  did  not  really  anticipate  what  followed  on  the 
part  either  of  the  horse  or  its  rider.  Had  Franklin 
not  been  a  good  rider,  and  accustomed  to  keep- 
ing his  head  while  sitting  half-broken  mounts, 
he  must  have  suffered  almost  instantaneous  defeat 
in  this  sudden  encounter.  The  horse  threw  his 
head  down  far  between  his  fore  legs  at  the  start,  and 
then  went  angling  and  zigzagging  away  over  the 
hard  ground  in  a  wild  career  of  humpbacked  antics, 
which  jarred  Franklin  to  the  marrow  of  his  bones. 
The  air  became  scintillant  and  luminously  red.  His 
head  seemed  filled  with  loose  liquid,  his  spine  turned 


62        THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

into  a  column  of  mere  gelatine.  The  thudding  of 
the  hoofs  was  so  rapid  and  so  punishing  to  his 
senses  that  for  a  moment  he  did  not  realize  where  he 
actually  was.  Yet  with  the  sheer  instinct  of  horse- 
manship he  clung  to  the  saddle  in  some  fashion, 
until  finally  he  was  fairly  forced  to  relax  the  muscu- 
lar strain,  and  so  by  accident  fell  into  the  secret  of 
the  seat — loose,  yielding,  not  tense  and  strung. 

"  Go  it,  go  it — whooop-e-e-e !  "  cried  Curly, 
somewhere  out  in  a  dark  world.  "  Ee-eikee-hooo ! 
Set  him  fair,  pardner !  Set  him  fair,  now !  Let  go 
that  leather !  Ride  him  straight  up  I  That's 
right!" 

Franklin  had  small  notion  of  Curly's  locality, 
but  he  heard  his  voice,  half  taunting  and  half  en- 
couraging, and  calling  on  all  his  pluck  as  he  saw 
some  hope  of  a  successful  issue,  he  resolved  to  ride 
it  out  if  it  lay  within  him  so  to  do.  He  was  well  on 
with  his  resolution  when  he  heard  another  voice, 
which  he  recognised  clearly. 

"  Good  boy,  Ned,"  cried  out  this  voice  heartily, 
though  likewise  from  some  locality  yet  vague. 
"  R-ride  the  divil  to  a  finish,  me  boy !  Git  up  his 
head,  Ned !  Git  up  his  head !  The  murderin',  hay- 
thin'  brute !  Kill  him !  Ride  him  out !  " 

And  ride  him  out  Franklin  did,  perhaps  as  much 
by  good  fortune  as  by  skill,  though  none  but  a 
shrewd  horseman  would  have  hoped  to  do  this  feat. 
Hurt  and  jarred,  he  yet  kept  upright,  and  at  last  he 


THE  NEW  WORLD  63 

did  get  the  horse's  head  up  and  saw  the  wild  per- 
formance close  as  quickly  as  it  had  begun.  The 
pony  ceased  his  grunting  and  fell  into  a  stiff  trot, 
with  little  to  indicate  his  hidden  pyrotechnic  quality. 
Franklin  whirled  him  around  and  rode  up  to  where 
Battersleigh  and  Curly  had  now  joined.  He  was  a 
bit  pale,  but  he  pulled  himself  together  well  before 
he  reached  them  and  dismounted  with  a  good  front 
of  unconcern.  Battersleigh  grasped  his  hand  in 
both  his  own  and  greeted  him  with  a  shower  of  wel- 
comes and  of  compliments.  Curly  slapped  him 
heartily  upon  the  shoulders. 

"  You're  all  right,  pardner,"  said  he.  "  You're 

the  d dest  best  pilgrim  that  ever  struck  this 

place,  an'  I  kin  lick  ary  man  that  says  differ'nt. 
He's  yore  horse  now,  shore." 

"  And  how  do  ye  do,  Ned  ?  God  bless  ye ! " 
said  Battersleigh  a  moment  later,  after  things  had 
become  more  tranquil,  the  horse  now  falling  to 
cropping  at  the  grass  with  a  meekness  of  demeanour 
which  suggested  innocence  or  penitence,  which- 
ever the  observer  chose.  "  I'm  glad  to  see  ye ;  glad 
as  ivver  I  was  in  all  me  life  to  see  a  livin'  soul! 
Why  didn't  ye  tell  ye  was  comin',  and  not  come 
ridin'  like  a  murderin'  Cintaur — but  ay,  boy,  ye're  a 
rider — worthy  the  ould  Forty-siventh — yis,  more, 
I'll  say  ye  might  be  a  officer  in  the  guards,  or  in  the 
Rile  Irish  itself,  b'gad,  yes,  sir! — Curly,  ye  divvil, 
what  do  ye  mean  by  puttin'  me  friend  on  such  a 


64        THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

brute,  him  the  first  day  in  the  land?  And,  Ned, 
how  are  ye  goin'  to  like  it  here,  me  boy  ?  " 

Franklin  wiped  his  forehead  as  he  replied  to  Bat- 
tersleigh's  running  fire  of  salutations. 

"  Well,  Battersleigh,"  he  said,  "  I  must  say  I've 
been  pretty  busy  ever  since  I  got  here,  and  so  far  as 
I  can  tell  at  this  date,  I'm  much  disposed  to  think 
this  is  a  strange  and  rather  rapid  sort  of  country 
you've  got  out  here." 

"  Best  d n  pilgrim  ever  hit  this  rodeo! "  re- 
peated Curly,  with  conviction. 

"  Shut  up,  Curly,  ye  divvil ! "  said  Battersleigh. 
"  Come  into  the  house,  the  both  of  you.  It's  but  a 
poor  house,  but  ye're  welcome. — An'  welcome  ye 
are,  too,  Ned,  me  boy,  to  the  New  World." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   BEGINNING 

FRANKLIN'S  foot  took  hold  upon  the  soil  of  the 
new  land.  His  soul  reached  out  and  laid  hold  upon 
the  sky,  the  harsh  flowers,  the  rasping  wind.  He 
gave,  and  he  drank  in.  Thus  grew  the  people  of 
the  West. 

The  effect  upon  different  men  of  new  and  crude 
conditions  is  as  various  as  the  individuals  them- 
selves. To  the  dreamer,  the  theorist,  the  man  who 
looks  too  far  forward  into  the  future  or  too  far  back 
into  the  past,  the  message  of  the  environment  may 
fall  oppressively ;  whereas  to  the  practical  man,  con- 
tent to  live  in  the  present  and  to  devise  immediate 
remedies  for  immediate  ills,  it  may  come  sweet  as  a 
challenge  upon  reserves  of  energy.  The  American 
frontier  subsequent  to  the  civil  war  was  so  vast,  yet 
so  rapid,  in  its  motive  that  to  the  weak  or  the  un- 
ready it  was  merely  appalling.  The  task  was  that 
of  creating  an  entire  new  world.  So  confronted, 
some  sat  down  and  wept,  watching  the  fabric  grow 
under  the  hands  of  others.  Some  were  strong,  but 
knew  not  how  to  apply  their  strength ;  others  were 
6  65 


66        THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

strong  but  slothful.  The  man  of  initiative,  of  ex- 
ecutive, of  judgment  and  resource,  was  the  one  who 
later  came  to  rule.  There  was  no  one  class,  either 
of  rich  or  of  poor,  who  supplied  all  these  men.  The 
man  who  had  been  poor  in  earlier  life  might  set  to 
work  at  once  in  bettering  himself  upon  the  frontier ; 
and  by  his  side,  equally  prosperous,  might  be  one 
who  in  his  earlier  days  had  never  needed  to  earn 
a  dollar  nor  to  thrash  a  fellow-man.  Civilization 
at  its  later  stages  drives  the  man  into  a  corner.  In 
its  beginning  it  summons  this  same  man  out  of 
the  corner  and  asks  him  to  rely  upon  himself  for 
the  great  and  the  small  things  of  life,  thus  ultimately 
developing  that  sturdy  citizen  who  knows  the  value 
of  the  axiom,  "  Ubi  bene,  ibi  patria."  The  great 
deeds,  the  great  dreams  become  possible  for  nation 
or  for  individual  only  through  the  constant  per- 
formance of  small  deeds.  "  For  it  must  be  remem- 
bered that  life  consists  not  of  a  series  of  illustrious 
actions  or  elegant  enjoyments.  The  greater  part 
of  our  time  passes  in  compliance  with  necessities, 
in  the  performance  of  daily  duties,  in  the  removal  of 
small  inconveniences,  in  the  procurement  of  petty 
pleasures ;  and  we  are  well  or  ill  at  ease  as  the  main 
stream  of  life  glides  on  smoothly,  or  is  ruffled  by 
small  obstructions  and  frequent  interruptions." 

Such  philosophy  was  for  Franklin  unformulated. 
Care  sat  not  on  his  heart.  There  were  at  first  no 
problems  in  all  the  world  for  him.  It  was  enough 


THE  BEGINNING  67 

to  feel  this  warm  sun  upon  the  cheek,  to  hear  the 
sigh  of  the  wind  in  the  grasses,  to  note  the  nodding 
flowers  and  hear  the  larks  busy  with  their  joys. 
The  stirring  of  primeval  man  was  strong,  that  mag- 
nificent rebellion  against  bonds  which  has,  after  all, 
been  the  mainspring  of  all  progress,  however  much 
the  latter  may  be  regulated  by  many  intercurrent 
wheels.  It  was  enough  for  Franklin  to  be  alive. 
He  stood  straight,  he  breathed  deep.  This  infec- 
tion was  in  his  blood. 

"Think  you,  Ned,  me  boy,"  said  Battersleigh, 
one  day,  as  they  stood  at  the  tent  door — "  think  you, 
this  old  gray  world  has  been  inhabited  a  million 
years,  by  billions  of  people,  and  yet  here  we  have 
a  chance  to  own  a  part  of  it,  each  for  himself,  here, 
at  this  last  minute  of  the  world's  life !  Do  you  mind 
that,  what  it  means?  Never  you  think  a  chance 
like  that'll  last  forever.  Yet  here  we  are,  before 
the  law,  and  almost  antedatin'  the  social  ijee.  It's 
the  beginnin',  man,  it's  the  very  beginnin'  of  things, 
where  we're  standin'  here,  this  very  blessed  day  of 
grace.  It's  Batty  has  travelled  all  his  life,  and  seen 
the  lands,  but  never  did  Batty  live  till  now !  " 

"  It's  grand,"  murmured  Franklin,  half  dreamily 
and  unconsciously  repeating  the  very  words  of  his 
friend,  as  he  had  done  before. 

Yet  Franklin  was  well  bitten  of  the  ambition 
germ.  It  would  serve  him  to  run  only  in  the  front 
rank.  He  was  not  content  to  dream.  He  saw  the 


68        THE  GIRL  AT  THE   HALFWAY  HOUSE 

great  things  ahead,  and  the  small  things  that  lay 
between.  In  a  week  he  was  the  guiding  mind  in 
the  affairs  of  the  odd  partnership  which  now  sprang 
between  him  and  his  friend.  Battersleigh  would 
have  lived  till  autumn  in  his  tent,  but  Franklin  saw 
that  the  need  of  a  house  was  immediate.  He  took 
counsel  of  Curly,  the  cowboy,  who  proved  guardian 
and  benefactor.  Curly  forthwith  produced  a  work- 
man, a  giant  Mexican,  a  half-witted  moso,  who  had 
followed  the  cow  bands  from  the  far  Southwest,  and 
who  had  hung  about  Curly 's  own  place  as  a  sort 
of  menial,  bound  to  do  unquestioningly  whatever 
Curly  bade.  This  curious  being,  a  very  colossus  of 
strength,  was  found  to  be  possessed  of  a  certain 
knowledge  in  building  houses  after  the  fashion  of 
that  land — that  is  to  say,  of  sods  and  earthen  un- 
baked bricks — and  since  under  his  master's  direc- 
tion he  was  not  less  serviceable  than  docile,  it  was 
not  long  before  the  "  claim  "  of  Battersleigh  was 
adorned  with  a  comfortable  house  fit  for  either 
winter  or  summer  habitation.  Franklin  meantime 
selected  the  body  of  land  upon  which  he  proposed 
to  make  settlers'  entry,  this  happily  not  far  from  his 
friend,  and  soon  this  too  had  its  house — small, 
crude,  brown,  meagre,  but  not  uncomforting  to  one 
who  looked  over  the  wide  land  and  saw  none  better 
than  his  own.  Then,  little  by  little,  they  got  pre- 
cious coal  from  the  railroad,  this  land  having  but 
scant  fuel  near  at  hand,  and  they  built  great  stacks 


THE  BEGINNING 


69 


of  the  bois  des  vaches,  that  fuel  which  Nature 
left  upon  the  plains  until  the  railroads  brought 
in  coal  and  wood.  Each  man  must,  under  the 
law,  live  upon  his  own  land,  but  in  practice  this 
was  no  hardship.  Each  must  of  necessity  cook 
for  himself,  sew  for  himself,  rely  upon  himself  for 
all  those  little  comforts  which  some  men  miss 
so  keenly,  and  which  others  so  quickly  learn  to 
supply.  To  these  two  this  was  but  comfortable 
campaigning. 

There  remained  ever  before  the  minds  of  the  set- 
tlers the  desirability  of  laying  this  land  under  trib- 
ute, of  forcing  it  to  yield  a  livelihood.  Franklin  had 
no  wish  to  depart  from  his  original  plans.  He 
looked  to  see  all  the  ways  of  the  civilization  he  had 
left  behind  come  duly  hither  to  search  him  out.  He 
was  not  satisfied  to  abandon  his  law  books  for  the 
saddle,  but  as  yet  there  was  no  possibility  of  any 
practice  in  the  law,  though  meantime  one  must  live, 
however  simply.  It  was  all  made  easy.  That  wild 
Nature,  which  had  erected  rude  barriers  against  the 
coming  of  the  white  man,  had  at  her  reluctant  re- 
cession left  behind  the  means  by  which  the  white 
man  might  prevail.  Even  in  the  "  first  year  "  the 
settler  of  the  new  West  was  able  to  make  his  living. 
He  killed  off  the  buffalo  swiftly,  but  he  killed  them 
in  numbers  so  desperately  large  that  their  bones  lay 
in  uncounted  tons  all  over  a  desolated  empire.  First 
the  hides  and  then  the  bones  of  the  buffalo  gave  the 


70        THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

settler  his  hold  upon  the  land,  which  perhaps  he 
could  not  else  have  won. 

Franklin  saw  many  wagons  coming  and  unload- 
ing their  cargoes  of  bleached  bones  at  the  side  of  the 
railroad  tracks.  The  heap  of  bones  grew  vast, 
white,  ghastly,  formidable,  higher  than  a  house, 
more  than  a  bowshot  long.  There  was  a  market 
for  all  this  back  in  that  country  which  had  conceived 
this  road  across  the  desert.  Franklin  put  out  a 
wagon  at  this  industry,  hauling  in  the  fuel  and  the 
merchandise  of  the  raw  plains.  He  bought  the 
grim  product  of  others  who  were  ready  to  sell  and 
go  out  the  earlier  again.  He  betimes  had  out  more 
than  one  wagon  of  his  own ;  and  Battersleigh,  cav- 
alryman, became  Batty,  scouter  for  bones,  while 
Franklin  remained  at  the  market.  It  was  Franklin 
who,  bethinking  himself  of  the  commercial  differ- 
ence between  hard  black  horn  and  soft,  spongy 
bone,  began  the  earliest  shipments  of  the  tips  of  the 
buffalo  horns,  which  he  employed  a  man  to  saw  off 
and  pack  into  sacks  ready  for  the  far-off  button  fac- 
tories. Many  tons  of  these  tips  alone  he  came  to 
ship,  such  had  been  the  incredible  abundance  and 
the  incredible  waste ;  and  thus  thriving  upon  an  in- 
dustry whose  cause  and  whose  possibility  he  de- 
plored, he  came  to  realize  considerable  sums  and 
saw  the  question  of  subsistence  pass  rapidly  into 
unconcern.  Thus  he  had  gone  to  work  in  his  new 
and  untried  world  with  a  direct  and  effective  force. 


THE   BEGINNING  71 

He  dropped  from  him  as  a  garment  the  customs 
and  standards  of  the  world  he  had  left  behind,  and 
at  once  took  his  place  as  a  factor  in  a  new  order  of 
things. 

Meantime  the  little  town  added  building  after 
building  along  its  straggling  street,  each  of  these 
houses  of  a  single  story,  with  a  large  square  of 
board  front  which  projected  deceptively  high  and 
wide,  serving  to  cover  from  direct  view  the  rather 
humiliating  lack  of  importance  in  the  actual  build- 
ing. These  new  edifices  were  for  the  most  part 
used  as  business  places,  the  sorts  of  commerce  be- 
ing but  two — "  general  merchandise,"  which  meant 
chiefly  saddles  and  firearms,  and  that  other  industry 
of  new  lands  which  flaunts  under  such  signboards 
as  the  Lone  Star,  the  Happy  Home,  the  Quiet 
Place,  the  Cowboy's  Dream,  and  such  descriptive 
nomenclature.  Of  fourteen  business  houses,  nine 
were  saloons,  and  all  these  were  prosperous. 
Money  was  in  the  hands  of  all.  The  times  had  not 
yet  come  when  a  dollar  seemed  a  valuable  thing. 
Men  were  busy  living,  busy  at  exercising  this  vast 
opportunity  of  being  prehistoric. 

One  by  one,  then  in  a  body,  as  though  struck  by 
panic,  the  white  tents  of  the  railroad  labourers  van- 
ished, passing  on  yet  farther  to  the  West,  only  the 
engineers  remaining  at  Ellisville  and  prosecuting 
from  the  haven  of  the  stone  hotel  the  work  of  con- 
tinuing the  line.  The  place  of  the  tents  was  taken 


72        THE  GIRL  AT   THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

by  vast  white-topped  wagons,  the  creaking  cook 
carts  of  the  cattle  trail,  and  the  van  of  the  less  no- 
madic man.  It  was  the  beginning  of  the  great 
cattle  drive  from  the  Southern  to  the  Northern 
ranges,  a  strange,  wild  movement  in  American  life 
which  carried  in  its  train  a  set  of  conditions  as  vivid 
and  peculiar  as  they  were  transient.  At  Ellisville 
there  was  no  ordered  way  of  living.  The  frontier 
was  yet  but  one  vast  camp.  It  was,  as  Battersleigh 
had  said,  the  beginning  of  things. 

Many  of  the  white-topped  wagons  began  to 
come  from  the  East,  not  following  the  railroad,  but 
travelling  the  trail  of  the  older  adventurers  who  had 
for  a  generation  gone  this  way,  and  whose  pathway 
the  railroad  took  for  its  own.  Some  of  these 
wagons  passed  still  onward,  uncontent.  Others 
swerved  and  scattered  over  the  country  to  the  south 
and  southwest,  from  which  the  Indian  tribes  had 
now  been  driven,  and  which  appeared  more  tempt- 
ing to  the  farming  man  than  lands  farther  to  the 
west  and  higher  up  that  gradual  and  wonderful  in- 
cline which  reaches  from  the  Missouri  River  to  the 
Rockies.  One  by  one,  here  and  there,  these  new 
men  selected  their  lands  and  made  their  first  rude 
attempts  at  building  for  themselves  the  homes 
which  they  coveted  and  had  come  far  to  win. 

Ellisville  lay  at  an  eddy  in  the  Plains,  and  gath- 
ered toll  of  the  strange  driftwood  which  was  then 
afloat.  Though  the  chutes  at  the  railway  were 


THE   BEGINNING  73 

busy,  yet  other  herds  of  cattle  passed  Ellisville  and 
wandered  on  north,  crowding  at  the  heels  of  the 
passing  Indians,  who  now  began  to  see  their  own 
cattle  to  be  doomed.  The  main  herd  of  the  buf- 
falo was  now  reported  to  be  three  or  four  days'  drive 
from  Ellisville,  and  the  men  who  killed  for  the  rail- 
road camps  uttered  loud  complaints.  The  skin- 
hunting  still  went  on.  Great  wagons,  loaded  with 
parties  of  rough  men,  passed  on  out,  bound  for  the 
inner  haunts,  where  they  might  still  find  their  prey. 
The  wagons  came  creaking  back  loaded  with  bales 
of  the  shaggy  brown  robes,  which  gave  the  skin- 
hunters  money  with  which  to  join  the  cowmen  at 
the  drinking  places.  Some  of  the  skin-hunters, 
some  of  the  railroad  men,  some  of  the  cowmen, 
some  of  the  home-seekers,  remained  in  the  eddy  at 
Ellisville,  this  womanless  beginning  of  a  permanent 
society.  Not  sinless  was  this  society  at  its  incipi- 
ency.  In  any  social  atmosphere  good  and  evil  are 
necessary  concomitants.  Sinless  men  would  form 
a  community  at  best  but  perishable.  Tolerance, 
submission,  patriotism  so  called,  brotherly  love  so 
named — all  these  things  were  to  come  later,  as  they 
have  ever  done  in  the  development  of  communities, 
builded  mainly  upon  the  foundation  of  individual 
aggressiveness  and  individual  centrifugence.  Hav- 
ing arrived,  we  wave  scented  kerchiefs  between 
us  and  the  thought  of  such  a  beginning  of  our 
prosperity.  Having  become  slaves,  we  scoff  at  the 


74 


THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 


thought  of  a  primitive,  grand,  and  happy  world, 
where  each  man  was  a  master.  Having  lost  touch 
of  the  earth,  having  lost  sight  of  the  sky,  we  opine 
there  could  have  been  small  augur  in  a  land  where 
each  man  found  joy  in  an  earth  and  sky  which  to 
him  seemed  his  own.  There  were  those  who  knew 
that  joy  and  who  foresaw  its  passing,  yet  they  were 
happy.  Edward  Franklin  saw  afar  off  the  dim  star 
of  his  ambition;  yet  for  him,  as  for  many  another 
man  in  those  days,  it  was  enough  to  own  this  earth, 
this  sky,  to  lie  down  under  his  own  roof  at  night  to 
untroubled  dreams,  to  awake  each  morning  to  a  day 
of  hopeful  toil. 


CHAPTER   IX 

THE    NEW    MOVERS 

FAR  away,  across  the  wide  gray  plain,  appeared 
a  tiny  dot,  apparently  an  unimportant  fixture  of  the 
landscape.  An  hour  earlier  it  might  not  have  been 
observed  at  all  by  even  the  keenest  eye,  and  it  would 
have  needed  yet  more  time  to  assure  an  observer 
even  now  that  the  dot  was  a  moving  object.  Under 
the  shifting  play  of  the  prairie  sun  the  little  object 
appeared  now  dark,  now  light  in  colour,  but  became 
gradually  more  distinct.  It  came  always  crawling 
steadily  on.  Presently  an  occasional  side-blown 
puff  of  dust  added  a  certain  heraldry,  and  thus 
finally  the  white-topped  wagon  and  its  plodding 
team  came  fully  into  view,  crawling  ever  persist- 
ently from  the  East  into  the  West. 

Meantime,  from  the  direction  of  the  north,  there 
came  travelling  across  the  prairie  another  cloud  of 
dust  more  rapid  thn  that  stirred  up  by  the  slow- 
moving  emigrant  wagon.  Sam,  the  stage  driver, 
was  crossing  on  his  regular  buckboard  trip  from 
Ellisville  to  Plum  Centre,  and  was  now  nearly  half- 
way on  his  journey.  Obviously  the  courses  of 

75 


76        THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

these  two  vehicles  must  intersect,  and  at  the  natural 
point  of  this  intersection  the  driver  of  the  faster 
pulled  up  and  waited  for  the  other.  "  Movers " 
were  not  yet  so  common  in  that  region  that  the 
stage  driver,  natural  news  agent,  must  not  pause  for 
investigation. 

The  driver  of  the  wagon,  a  tall,  dark  man, 
drew  rein  with  a  grave  salutation,  his  tired  horses 
standing  with  drooping  heads  while  there  took 
place  one  of  the  pregnant  conversations  of  the 
Plains. 

"  Mornin',  friend,"  said  Sam. 

"  Mornin',  sir,"  said  the  other. 

"  Which  way  you  headin',  friend  ?  "  asked  Sam. 

"  Well,  sir,"  came  the  answer,  slowly,  "  I  rather 
reckon  you've  got  me.  I've  just  been  movin*  on 
out.  I  want  to  locate,  but  I  reckon  my  team  could 
travel  a  little  further  if  they  had  to."  This  with 
a  certain  grimness  in  his  smile,  as  though  he  real- 
ized the  whimsicality  of  the  average  motive  which 
governed  in  that  day  in  quests  like  his.  "  Is 
there  much  travel  comin'  through  here  this  sea- 
son ?  "  he  resumed,  turning  in  his  seat  and  rest- 
ing one  foot  on  the  wheel  as  he  sat  still  perched  on 
the  high  wagon  seat. 

"  Well,"  replied  Sam,  "  they  ain't  so  much  just 
yet,  but  they  will  be  pretty  soon.  You  see,  the  Land 
Office  is  about  sixty  mile  east  of  here  yet,  and  folks 
is  mostly  stoppin'  in  there.  Land  around  here  is 


THE   NEW   MOVERS  77 

pretty  much  all  open  yet.  If  they  move  the  Land 
Office  to  the  track-end,  of  course  all  this  land  will  be 
taken  up  a  good  deal  faster." 

"  Is  it  good  farmin'  land  around  here  ?  " 

"  Sure.  Better'n  it  is  farther  west,  and  just 
as  good  as  it  is  farther  east.  Wheat'll  do  well  here, 
and  it  ain't  too  cold  for  corn.  Best  cow  country 
on  earth." 

"  How  is  Ellisville  doing  now  ?  " 

"  Bloomin'." 

"  Yes,  sir,  so  I  heard  farther  back.  Is  it  goin' 
to  be  a  real  town  ?  " 

"That's  whatever!  How  can  it  help  it?  It's 
goin'  to  be  a  division  point  on  the  road.  It's  goin' 
to  have  all  the  cattle-shippin'  trade.  After  a  while 
it'll  have  all  the  farmin'  trade.  It's  goin'  to  be  the 
town,  all  right,  don't  you  neglect  that.  They's 
fifteen  thousand  head  of  cattle  in  around  here  now. 
Town's  got  two  hotels,  good  livery  stable — that's 
mine — half  a  dozen  stores,  nigh  on  to  a  dozen  sa- 
loons, an'  two  barber-shops.  Yes,  sir,  Ellisville  is 
the  place!" 

"Which  way  are  you  bound,  sir?"  asked  the 
stranger,  still  sitting,  apparently  in  thought,  with 
his  chin  resting  on  his  hand. 

"Well,  you  see,  they's  another  town  goin'  up 
below  here  about  twenty  mile — old  man  Plum's 
town,  Plum  Centre.  I  run  the  mail  an'  carry  folk 
acrost  from  Ellisville  to  that  place.  This  here 


78        THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

is  just  about  halfway  acrost.  Ellisville's  about 
twenty  or  twenty-five  mile  north  of  here." 

Sam  spoke  lucidly  enough,  but  really  he  was 
much  consumed  with  curiosity,  for  he  had  seen, 
behind  the  driver  of  the  wagon,  a  face  outlined  in 
the  shade.  He  wondered  how  many  "  women- 
folk "  the  new  mover  had  along,  this  being  ever  a 
vital  question  at  that  day.  The  tall  man  on  the 
wagon  seat  turned  his  face  slowly  back  toward  the 
interior  of  the  wagon. 

"  What  do  you  think,  Lizzie?  "  he  asked. 

"  Dear  me,  William,"  came  reply  from  the  dark- 
ness in  a  somewhat  complaining  voice,  "  how  can 
I  tell?  It  all  seems  alike  to  me.  You  can  judge 
better  than  I." 

"  What  do  you  say,  niece  ?  " 

The  person  last  addressed  rested  a  hand  upon 
the  questioner's  shoulder  and  lightly  climbed  out 
upon  the  seat  by  his  side,  stooping  as  she  passed 
under  the  low  bow  of  the  cover  frame.  She  stood 
upright,  a  tall  and  gracious  figure,  upon  the  wagon 
floor  in  front  of  the  seat,  and  shaded  her  eyes  as 
she  looked  about  her.  Her  presence  caused  Sam 
to  instinctively  straighten  up  and  tug  at  his  open 
coat.  He  took  off  his  hat  with  a  memory  of  other 
days,  and  said  his  "  Good-mornin' "  as  the  school- 
boy does  to  his  teacher — superior,  revered,  and 
awesome. 

Yet  this  new  character  upon  this  bare  little 


THE   NEW   MOVERS  79 

scene  was  not  of  a  sort  to  terrify.  Tall  she  was 
and  shapely,  comely  with  all  the  grace  of  youth  and 
health,  not  yet  tanned  too  brown  by  the  searing 
prairie  winds,  and  showing  still  the  faint  purity  of 
the  complexion  of  the  South.  There  was  no  slouch 
in  her  erect  and  self-respecting  carriage,  no  shifti- 
ness in  her  eye,  no  awkwardness  in  her  speech.  To 
Sam  it  was  instantaneously  evident  that  here  was  a 
new  species  of  being,  one  of  which  he  had  but  the 
vaguest  notions  through  any  experiences  of  his 
own.  His  chief  impression  was  that  he  was  at  once 
grown  small,  dusty,  and  much  unshaven.  He 
flushed  as  he  shifted  and  twisted  on  the  buckboard 
seat. 

The  girl  looked  about  her  for  a  moment  in 
silence,  shading  her  eyes  still  with  her  curved  hand. 

"  It  is  much  alike,  all  this  country  that  we  have 
seen  since  we  left  the  last  farms,  Uncle  William," 
she  said,  "  but  it  doesn't  seem  dreary  to  me.  I 
should  think " 

But  what  she  would  have  thought  was  broken 
into  by  a  sudden  exclamation  from  farther  back 
in  the  wagon.  A  large  black  face  appeared  at  the 
aperture  under  the  front  wagon  bow,  and  the  owner 
of  it  spoke  with  a  certain  oracular  vigour. 

"  Fo'  Gawd,  Mass*  William,  less  jess  stop  right 
yer!  I  'clare,  Fse  jess  wore  to  a  plum  frazzle, 
a-travelin'  an*  a-traveliri !  Ef  we  gwine  settle,  why, 
less  settle,  thass  all  /  say !  " 


80        THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

The  driver  of  the  wagon  sat  silent  for  a  moment, 
his  leg  still  hanging  over  the  end  of  the  seat,  his 
chin  in  the  hand  of  the  arm  which  rested  upon  his 
other  leg,  propped  up  on  the  dashboard  of  the 
wagon.  At  length,  quietly,  and  with  no  comment, 
he  unbuckled  the  reins  and  threw  them  out  and 
down  upon  the  ground  on  either  side  of  the  wagon. 

"  Whoa,  boys,"  he  called  to  the  horses,  which 
were  too  weary  to  note  that  they  were  no  longer 
asked  to  go  farther  on.  Then  the  driver  got  delib- 
erately down.  He  was  a  tall  man,  of  good  bearing, 
in  his  shoulders  but  little  of  the  stoop  of  the  farmer, 
and  on  his  hands  not  any  convincing  proof  that  he 
was  personally  acquainted  with  continuous  bodily 
toil.  His  face  was  thin,  aquiline,  proud;  his  hair 
dark,  his  eyes  gray.  He  might  have  been  a  planter, 
a  rancher,  a  man  of  leisure  or  a  man  of  affairs,  as 
it  might  happen  that  one  met  him  at  the  one  local- 
ity or  the  other.  One  might  have  called  him  a 
gentleman,  another  only  a  "  pilgrim."  To  Sam  he 
was  a  "  mover,"  and  that  was  all.  His  own  duty 
as  proselyter  was  obvious.  Each  new  settlement 
was  at  war  with  all  others,  population  being  the 
first  need. 

"  We'll  turn  out  here,"  said  the  man,  striking 
his  heel  upon  the  ground  with  significant  gesture, 
as  was  an  unconscious  custom  among  the  men  who 
chose  out  land  for  themselves  in  a  new  region. 
"  We'll  stop  here  for  a  bite  to  eat,  and  I  reckon  we 


THE  NEW   MOVERS  8 1 

won't  go  any  farther  west.  How  is  this  country 
around  here  for  water  ?  " 

"  Sure,"  said  Sam,  "  excuse  me.  I've  got  a  jug 
along  with  me.  I  nearly  always  carry  some  water 
along,  because  they  ain't  but  one  creek,  and  they 
ain't  no  wells. — Have  a  drink,  miss  ?  "  And  he 
politely  pulled  out  the  wooden  stopper  of  a  jug 
and  offered  it  with  a  hand  which  jumped  in  spite 
of  himself. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  girl,  and  her  uncle 
added  his  courteous  thanks  also.  "  What  I  meant 
to  ask,  sir,  however,"  he  continued,  "  is  what  is  the 
prospect  of  getting  water  in  this  part  of  the  country 
in  case  we  should  like  to  settle  in  here  ?  " 

"Oh,  that?"  said  Sam.  "Why,  say,  you 
couldn't  very  well  hit  it  much  better.  Less'n  a  mile 
farther  down  this  trail  to  the  south  you  come  to  the 
Sinks  of  the  White  Woman  Creek.  They's  most 
always  some  water  in  that  creek,  and  you  can  git  it 
there  any  place  by  diggin'  ten  or  twenty  feet. 

"That's  good,"  said  the  stranger.  "That's 
mighty  good."  He  turned  to  the  wagon  side  and 
called  out  to  his  wife.  "  Come,  Lizzie,"  he  said, 
"  get  out,  dear,  and  take  a  rest.  We'll  have  a  bite 
to  eat,  and  then  we'll  talk  this  all  over." 

The  woman  to  whom  he  spoke  next  appeared  at 
the  wagon  front  and  was  aided  to  the  ground.  Tall, 
slender,  black  clad,  with  thin,  pale  face,  she  seemed 
even  more  unsuited  than  her  husband  to  the  pros- 


82        THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

pect  which  lay  before  them.  She  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment alone,  looking  about  her  at  the  land  which 
had  long  been  shut  off  from  view  by  the  wagon  tent, 
then  turned  and  went  close  to  the  man,  upon  whom 
she  evidently  relied  for  the  solution  of  life's  prob- 
lems. Immediately  behind  her  there  clambered 
down  from  the  wagon,  with  many  groanings  and 
complaints,  the  goodly  bulk  of  the  black  woman 
who  had  earlier  given  her  advice.  "  Set  down  yer, 
Mis'  Lizzie,  in  the  shade,"  she  said,  spreading  a  rug 
upon  the  ground  upon  the  side  of  the  wagon  far- 
thest from  the  sun.  "  Set  down  an'  git  a  ress. 
Gawd  knows  we  all  needs  it — this  yer  fo'saken  ken- 
try.  Tain'  good  as  Mizzoury,  let  'lone  Kaintucky 
er  Ole  Vehginny — no,  mam !  " 

There  was  thus  now  established,  by  the  chance 
of  small  things,  the  location  of  a  home.  This 
wagon,  with  its  occupants,  had  come  far  and 
journeyed  vaguely,  having  no  given  point  in  view. 
The  meeting  of  this  other  vehicle,  here  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  untracked  prairie,  perhaps  aided  by  the 
chance  words  of  a  tired  negress,  made  the  determin- 
ing circumstances.  It  was  done.  It  was  decided. 
There  was  a  relief  at  once  upon  every  countenance. 
Now  these  persons  were  become  citizens  of  this 
land.  Unwittingly,  or  at  least  tacitly,  this  was  ad- 
mitted when  the  leader  of  this  little  party  advanced 
to  the  side  of  the  buckboard  and  offered  his  hand. 

"  My  name  is  Buford,"  he  said  slowly  and  with 


THE  NEW  MOVERS  83 

grave  courtesy.  "  This  is  my  wife ;  my  niece,  Miss 
Beauchamp.  Your  name,  sir,  I  don't  know,  but 
we  are  very  glad  to  meet  you." 

"  My  name's  Poston,"  said  Sam,  as  he  also  now 
climbed  down  from  his  seat,  seeing  that  the  matter 
was  clinched  and  that  he  had  gained  a  family  for  his 
county — "  Sam  Poston.  I  run  the  livery  barn.  I 
sure  hope  you'll  stop  in  here,  for  you  won't  find  no 
better  country.  Do  you  allow  you'll  move  up  to 
Ellisville  and  live  there?" 

"  Well,  I've  started  out  to  get  some  land,"  said 
Buford,  "  and  I  presume  that  the  first  thing  is  to 
find  that  and  get  the  entry  made.  Then  we'll  have 
to  live  on  it  till  we  can  commute  it.  I  don't  know 
that  it  would  suit  us  at  Ellisville  just  yet.  It  must 
be  a  rather  hard  town,  from  all  I  can  learn,  and 
hardly  fit  for  ladies." 

"  That's  so,"  said  Sam,  "  it  ain't  just  the  quiet- 
est place  in  the  world  for  women-folks.  Only  five 
or  six  women  in  the  place  yet,  outside  the  section 
boss's  wife  and  the  help  at  the  depot  hotel.  Still," 
he  added  apologetically,  "  folks  soon  gets  used  to 
the  noise.  I  don't  mind  it  no  more  at  all." 

Buford  smiled  as  he  glanced  quizzically  at  the 
faces  of  his  "  women-folks."  At  this  moment  Sam 
broke  out  with  a  loud  exclamation. 

"Say!"  he  cried. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Buford. 

"I'll  tell  you  what!" 


84        THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

"Yes?" 

"  Now,  you  listen  to  me.  I'll  tell  you  what ! 
You  see,  this  here  place  where  we  are  now  is  just 
about  a  mile  from  the  White  Woman  Sinks,  and 
that  is,  as  I  was  sayin',  just  about  halfway  between 
Ellisville  and  Plum  Centre.  Now,  look  here.  This 
country's  goin'  to  boom.  They's  goin'  to  be  a 
plenty  of  people  come  in  here  right  along.  There'll 
be  a  regular  travel  from  Ellis  down  to  Plum  Centre, 
and  it's  too  long  a  trip  to  make  between  meals.  My 
passengers  all  has  to  carry  meals  along  with  'em, 
and  they  kick  on  that  a-plenty.  Now,  you  look 
here.  Listen  to  me.  You  just  go  down  to  the 
White  Woman,  and  drive  your  stake  there.  Take 
up  a  quarter  for  each  one  of  you.  Put  you  up  a 
sod  house  quick  as  you  can — I'll  git  you  help  for 
that.  Now,  if  you  can  git  anything  to  cook,  and 
can  give  meals  to  my  stage  outfit  when  I  carry  pas- 
sengers through  here,  why,  I  can  promise  you, 
you'll  git  business,  and  you'll  git  it  a-plenty,  too. 
Why,  say,  this'd  be  the  best  sort  of  a  lay-out,  all 
around.  You  can  start  just  as  good  a  business 
here  as  you  could  at  Ellisville,  and  it's  a  heap 
quieter  here.  Now,  I  want  some  one  to  start  just 
such  a  eatin'  place  somewheres  along  here,  and  if 
you'll  do  that,  you'll  make  a  stake  here  in  less'n  two 
years,  sure's  you're  born." 

Sam's  conviction  gave  him  eloquence.  He  was 
talking  of  business  now,  of  the  direct,  practical 


THE  NEW   MOVERS  8$ 

things  which  were  of  immediate  concern  in  the  life 
of  the  region  about.  The  force  of  what  he  said 
would  not  have  been  apparent  to  the  unpracticed 
observer,  who  might  have  seen  no  indication  in  the 
wide  solitude  about  that  there  would  ever  be  here 
a  human  population  or  a  human  industry.  Buford 
was  schooled  enough  to  be  more  just  in  his  esti- 
mate, and  he  saw  the  reasonableness  of  what  his 
new  acquaintance  had  said.  Unconsciously  his  eye 
wandered  over  to  the  portly  form  of  the  negress, 
who  sat  fanning  herself,  a  little  apart  from  the 
others.  He  smiled  again  with  the  quizzical  look  on 
his  face.  "  How  about  that,  Aunt  Lucy?  "  he  said. 

"  Do  hit,  Mass'  William,"  replied  the  coloured 
woman  at  once  with  conviction,  and  extending  an 
energetic  forefinger.  "  You  jess  do  whut  this  yer 
man  says.  Ef  they's  any  money  to  be  made 
a-cookin',  I  kin  do  all  the  cookin'  ever  you  wants, 
ef  you-all  kin  git  anything  to  cook.  Yas,  suh !  " 

"  You  ain't  makin'  no  mistake,"  resumed  Sam. 
"  You  go  in  and  git  your  land  filed  on,  and  put  you 
up  a  sod  house  or  dugout  for  the  first  season,  be- 
cause lumber's  awful  high  out  here.  It's  pretty 
late  to  do  anything  with  a  crop  this  year,  even  if  you 
had  any  breakin'  done,  but  you  can  take  your  team 
and  gether  bones  this  fall  and  winter,  and  that'll 
make  you  a  good  livin',  too.  You  can  git  some 
young  stock  out  of  the  trail  cattle  fer  a'most  any- 
thing you  want  to  give,  and  you  can  hold  your 


86       THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

bunch  in  here  on  the  White  Woman  when  you  git 
started.  You  can  cut  a  little  hay  a  little  lower  down 
on  the  White  Woman  for  your  team,  or  they  can 
range  out  in  here  all  winter  and  do  well,  just  like 
your  cows  can.  You  can  git  a  lot  of  stock  about 
you  before  long,  and  what  with  keepin'  a  sort  of 
eatin'  station  and  ranchin'  it  a  bit,  you  ought  to  git 
along  mighty  well,  I  should  say.  But — 'scuse  me, 
have  you  ever  farmed  it  much  ?  " 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Buford,  slowly,  "I  used  to 
plant  corn  and  cotton,  back  in  Kentucky,  befo' 
the  war." 

"  And  you  come  from  Kentucky  out  here  ?  " 

"  Not  precisely  that ;  no,  sir.  I  moved  to  Mis- 
souri from  Kentucky  after  the  war,  and  came  from 
Missouri  here." 

Sam  looked  at  him,  puzzled.  "  I  allowed  you'd 
never  ranched  it  much,"  he  said,  vaguely.  "  How'd 
you  happen  to  come  out  here  ?  " 

The  quizzical  smile  again  crossed  Buford's  face. 
"  I  think  I  shall  have  to  give  that  up,  on  my  hon- 
our/' he  said.  "  We  just  seem  to  have  started  on 
West,  and  to  have  kept  going  until  we  got  here. 
It  seemed  to  be  the  fashion — especially  if  you'd  lost 
about  everything  in  the  world  and  seen  everything 
go  to  pieces  all  about  you."  He  added  this  with  a 
slow  and  deliberate  bitterness  which  removed  the 
light  trace  of  humour  for  the  time. 

"  From  Kentucky,  eh  ?  "  said  Sam,  slowly  and 


THE  NEW  MOVERS  87 

meditatively.  "Well,  it  don't  make  no  difference 
where  you  come  from ;  we  want  good  men  in  here, 
and  you'll  find  this  a  good  country,  I'll  gamble  on 
that.  I've  followed  the  front  clean  acrost  the  State, 
the  last  ten  years,  and  I  tell  you  it's  all  right  here. 
You  can  make  it  if  you  take  hold  right.  Now  I 
must  be  gittin'  along  again  over  toward  Plum  Cen- 
tre. See  you  again  if  you  stop  in  here  on  White 
Woman  —  see  you  several  times  a  week,  like 
enough.  You  must  come  up  to  Ellis  soon  as  you 
git  straightened  out.  Ain't  many  women-folks  up 
there,  but  then  they're  fine  what  there  is.  Say," 
and  he  drew  Buford  to  one  side  as  he  whispered  to 
him — "  say,  they's  a  mighty  fine  girl — works  in  the 
depot  hotel — Nory's  her  name — you'll  see  her  if 
you  ever  come  up  to  town.  I'm  awful  gone  on  that 
girl,  and  if  you  git  any  chanct,  if  you  happen  to  be 
up  there,  you  just  put  in  a  good  word  for  me,  won't 
you  ?  I'd  do  as  much  for  you.  I  didn't  know,  you 
know,  but  what  maybe  some  of  your  women-folks'd 
sort  of  know  how  it  was,  you  know.  They  under- 
stand them  things,  I  reckon." 

Buford  listened  with  grave  politeness,  though 
with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  and  promised  to  do  what 
he  could.  Encouraged  at  this,  Sam  stepped  up 
and  shook  hands  with  Mrs.  Buford  and  with  the 
girl,  not  forgetting  Aunt  Lucy,  an  act  which  singu- 
larly impressed  that  late  inhabitant  of  a  different 
land,  and  made  him  her  fast  friend  for  life. 


88        THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

"  Well,  so  long,"  he  said  to  them  all  in  general 
as  he  turned  away,  "  and  good  luck  to  you.  You 
ain't  makin'  no  mistake  in  settlin'  here.  Good-bye 
till  I  see  you  all  again." 

He  stepped  into  the  buckboard  and  clucked  to 
his  little  team,  the  dust  again  rising  from  under 
the  wheels.  The  eyes  of  those  remaining  followed 
him  already  yearningly.  In  a  half  hour  there  had 
been  determined  the  location  of  a  home,  there  had 
been  suggested  a  means  of  livelihood,  and  there  had 
been  offered  and  received  a  friendship.  Here,  in 
the  middle  of  the  great  gray  Plains,  where  no  sign 
of  any  habitation  was  visible  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach,  these  two  white  men  had  met  and  shaken 
hands.  In  a  half  hour  this  thing  had  become  mat- 
ter of  compact.  They  had  taken  the  oath.  They 
had  pledged  themselves  to  become  members  of  so- 
ciety, working  together — working,  as  they  thought, 
each  for  himself,  but  working  also,  as  perhaps  they 
did  not  dream,  at  the  hest  of  some  destiny  gov- 
erning plans  greater  than  their  own.  As  Buford 
turned  he  stumbled  and  kicked  aside  a  bleached 
buffalo  skull,  which  lay  half  hidden  in  the  red  grass 
at  his  feet. 


CHAPTER   X 

THE   CHASE 

THE  summer  flamed  up  into  sudden  heat,  and 
seared  all  the  grasses,  and  cut  down  the  timid 
flowers.  Then  gradually  there  came  the  time  of 
shorter  days  and  cooler  nights.  The  grass  curled 
tight  down  to  the  ground.  The  air  carried  a  sus- 
picion of  frost  upon  some  steel-clear  mornings. 
The  golden-backed  plover  had  passed  to  the  south 
in  long,  waving  lines,  which  showed  dark  against 
the  deep  blue  sky.  Great  flocks  of  grouse  now  and 
then  rocked  by  at  morning  or  evening.  On  the 
sand  bars  along  the  infrequent  streams  thousands  of 
geese  gathered,  pausing  in  their  flight  to  warmer 
lands.  On  the  flats  of  the  Rattlesnake,  a  pond- 
lined  stream,  myriads  of  ducks,  cranes,  swans,  and 
all  manner  of  wild  fowl  daily  made  mingled  and  dis- 
cordant chorus.  Obviously  all  the  earth  was  pre- 
paring for  the  winter  time. 

It  became  not  less  needful  for  mankind  to  take 
thought  for  the  morrow.  Winter  on  the  Plains  was 
a  season  of  severity  for  the  early  settlers,  whose  re- 
sources alike  in  fuel  and  food  were  not  too  ex- 
7  89 


0/D       THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

tensive.  Franklin's  forethought  had  provided  the 
houses  of  himself  and  Battersleigh  with  proper  fuel, 
and  he  was  quite  ready  to  listen  to  Curly  when  the 
latter  suggested  that  it  might  be  a  good  thing  for 
them  to  follow  the  usual  custom  and  go  out  on  a 
hunt  for  the  buffalo  herd,  in  order  to  supply  them- 
selves with  their  winter's  meat. 

Before  the  oncoming  white  men  these  great  ani- 
mals were  now  rapidly  passing  away,  from  month 
to  month  withdrawing  farther  back  from  the  settle- 
ments. Reports  from  the  returning  skin-hunters 
set  the  distance  of  the  main  herd  at  three  to  five 
days'  journey.  The  flesh  of  the  buffalo  was  now  a 
marketable  commodity  at  any  point  along  the  rail- 
way ;  but  the  settler  who  owned  a  team  and  a  rifle 
was  much  more  apt  to  go  out  and  kill  his  own  meat 
than  to  buy  it  of  another.  There  were  many 
wagons  which  went  out  that  fall  from  Ellisville 
besides  those  of  the  party  with  which  Franklin, 
Battersleigh,  and  Curly  set  out.  These  three  had 
a  wagon  and  riding  horses,  and  they  were  accom- 
panied by  a  second  wagon,  owned  by  Sam,  the  liv- 
eryman, who  took  with  him  Curly's  mozo,  the  giant 
Mexican,  Juan.  The  latter  drove  the  team,  a  task 
which  Curly  scornfully  refused  when  it  was  offered 
him,  his  cowboy  creed  rating  any  conveyance  other 
than  the  saddle  as  far  beneath  his  station. 

"  Juan  can  drive  all  right,"  he  said.  "  He  druv 
a  cook  wagon  all  the  way  from  the  Red  River  up 


THE  CHASE  9! 

here.  Let  him  and  Sam  drive,  and  us  three  fellers'll 
ride." 

The  task  of  the  drivers  was  for  the  most  part 
simple,  as  the  flat  floor  of  the  prairies  stretched 
away  evenly  mile  after  mile,  the  horses  jogging 
along  dejectedly  but  steadily  over  the  unbroken 
short  gray  grass,  ignorant  and  careless  of  any  road 
or  trail. 

At  night  they  slept  beneath  the  stars,  uncovered 
by  any  tent,  and  saluted  constantly  by  the  whining 
coyotes,  whose  vocalization  was  betimes  broken  by 
the  hoarser,  roaring  note  of  the  great  gray  buffalo 
wolf.  At  morn  they  awoke  to  an  air  surcharged 
with  some  keen  elixir  which  gave  delight  in  sense  of 
living.  The  subtle  fragrance  of  the  plains,  born  of 
no  fruit  or  flower,  but  begotten  of  the  sheer  cleanli- 
ness of  the  thrice-pure  air,  came  to  their  nostrils  as 
they  actually  snuffed  the  day.  So  came  the  sun 
himself,  with  heralds  of  pink  and  royal  purple,  with 
banners  of  flaming  red  and  gold.  At  this  the  coy- 
otes saluted  yet  more  shrilly  and  generally.  The 
lone  gray  wolf,  sentinel  on  some  neighbouring 
ridge,  looked  down,  contemptuous  in  his  wisdom. 
Perhaps  a  band  of  antelope  tarried  at  some  crest. 
Afar  upon  the  morning  air  came  the  melodious 
trumpeting  of  wild  fowl,  rising  from  some  far-off 
unknown  roosting  place  and  setting  forth  upon 
errand  of  their  own.  All  around  lay  a  new  world, 
a  wild  world,  a  virgin  sphere  not  yet  acquaint  with 


92        THE  GIRL  AT  THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

man.  Phoenicians  of  the  earthy  seas,  these  travel- 
lers daily  fared  on  into  regions  absolutely  new. 

Early  upon  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day  of 
their  journey  the  travellers  noted  that  the  plain 
began  to  rise  and  sink  in  longer  waves.  Presently 
they  found  themselves  approaching  a  series  of  rude 
and  wild-looking  hills  of  sand,  among  which  they 
wound  deviously  as  they  might,  confronted  often 
by  forbidding  buttes  and  lofty  dunes  whose  only 
sign  of  vegetation  was  displayed  in  a  ragged  fringe 
of  grass  which  waved  like  a  scalp  lock  here  and 
there  upon  the  summits.  For  many  miles  they 
travelled  through  this  difficult  and  cheerless  region, 
the  horses  soon  showing  signs  of  distress  and  all 
the  party  feeling  need  of  water,  of  which  the  supply 
had  been  exhausted.  It  was  nearly  noon  while  they 
were  still  involved  in  this  perplexing  region,  and 
as  none  of  the  party  had  ever  seen  the  country  be- 
fore, none  could  tell  how  long  it  might  be  before 
they  would  emerge  from  it.  They  pushed  on  in 
silence,  intent  upon  what  might  be  ahead,  so  that 
when  there  came  an  exclamation  from  the  half- 
witted Mexican,  whose  stolid  silence  under  most 
circumstances  had  become  a  proverb  among  them, 
each  face  was  at  once  turned  toward  him. 

"Eh,  what's  that,  Juan?"  said  Curly.— "  Say, 
boys,  he  says  we're  about  out  of  the  sand  hills. 
Prairie  pretty  soon  now,  he  says." 

"  And  will  ye  tell  me,  now,"  said  Battersleigh, 


THE  CHASE 


93 


"  how  the  haythen  knows  a  bit  more  of  it  than  we 
oursilves?  He's  never  been  here  before.  I'm 
thinkin'  it's  pure  guess  he's  givin'  us,  me  boy." 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Curly,  positively.  "  If  Juan 
says  a  thing  like  that,  he  knows.  I  don't  know  how 
he  knows  it,  but  he  shore  does,  and  I'll  gamble  on 
him  every  time.  You  see,  he  ain't  hardly  like  folks, 
that  feller.  He's  more  like  a  critter.  He  knows 
a  heap  of  things  that  you  and  me  don't." 

"  That's  curious,"  said  Franklin.  "  How  do 
you  account  for  it  ?  " 

"  Kin  savvy,"  said  Curly.  "  I  don't  try  to  ac- 
count for  it,  me.  I  only  know  it's  so.  You  see  if 
it  ain't." 

And  so  it  was.  The  wall  of  the  sand  hills  was 
for  a  time  apparently  as  endless  and  impervious  as 
ever,  and  they  still  travelled  on  in  silence,  the  Mexi- 
can making  no  further  sign  of  interest.  Yet  pres- 
ently the  procession  of  the  sand  dunes  began  to 
show  gaps  and  open  places.  The  hills  grew  less 
tall  and  more  regular  of  outline.  Finally  they 
shrank  and  fell  away,  giving  place  again  to  the  long 
roll  of  the  prairie,  across  which,  and  near  at  hand  to 
the  edge  of  the  sand  hills,  there  cut  the  open  and  flat 
bed  of  a  water  way,  now  apparently  quite  dry. 

"  We're  all  right  for  water  now,"  said  Sam. 
"  See  that  little  pile  of  rocks,  'bout  as  high  as  your 
head,  off  to  the  right  down  the  creek?  That's 
water  there,  sure." 


94 


THE  GIRL  AT   THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 


"Yep,"  said  Curly.  "She's  there,  sure.  Or 
you  could  git  it  by  diggin'  anywheres  in  here  in 
the  creek  bed,  inside  of  four  or  five  feet  at  most." 

Franklin  again  felt  constrained  to  ask  some- 
what of  the  means  by  which  these  two  felt  so  confi- 
dent of  their  knowledge.  "  Well,  now,  Curly,"  he 
said,  "it  isn't  instinct  this  time,  surely,  for  Juan 
didn't  say  anything  about  it  to  you.  I  would  like 
to  know  how  you  know  there  is  water  ahead." 

"Why,"  said  Curly,  "  that's  the  sign  for  water  on 
the  plains.  If  you  ever  see  one  of  them  little  piles 
of  stones  standin'  up,  you  can  depend  you  can  git 
water  there.  Sometimes  it  marks  a  place  where 
you  can  git  down  through  the  breaks  to  the  creek 
bed,  and  sometimes  it  means  that  if  you  dig  in  the 
bed  there  you  can  find  water,  'lowin'  the  creek's 
dry." 

"  But  who  built  up  the  rock  piles  to  make  these 
signs  ?  "  asked  Franklin. 

"  O  Lord !  now  you've  got  me,"  said  Curly. 
"  I  don't  know  no  more  about  that  than  you  do. 
Injuns  done  it,  maybe.  Some  says  the  first  wild- 
horse  hunters  put  'em  up.  They  was  always  there, 
all  over  the  dry  country,  far  back  as  ever  I  heard. 
You  ask  Juan  if  there  ain't  water  not  far  off.  See 
what  he  says. — Oye,  Juan!  Ten  go  agua,  poco 
tiempo?" 

The  giant  did  not  even  lift  his  head,  but  an- 
swered listlessly,  "  Agua?  Si,"  as  though  that  were 


THE  CHASE 


95 


a  matter  of  which  all  present  must  have  equal 
knowledge. 

"That  settles  it,"  said  Curly.  "I  never  did 
know  Juan  to  miss  it  on  locatin'  water  yet,  not 
onct.  I  kin  fairly  taste  it  now.  But  you  see,  Juan, 
he  don't  seem  to  go  by  no  rock-pile  signs.  He  just 
seems  to  smell  water,  like  a  horse  or  a  steer." 

They  now  rode  on  more  rapidly,  bearing  off 
toward  the  cairn  which  made  the  water  sign.  All 
at  once  Juan  lifted  his  head,  listened  for  a  moment, 
and  then  said,  with  more  show  of  animation  than 
he  had  yet  displayed  and  with  positiveness  in  his 
voice :  "  Vacas! "  ("  cows ;  cattle  "). 

Curly  straightened  up  in  his  saddle  as  though 
electrified.  "  Vacas  f  Onde,  Juan? — where's  any 
cows  ? "  He  knew  well  enough  that  no  hoof  of 
domestic  cattle  had  ever  trod  this  country.  Yet 
trust  as  he  did  the  dictum  of  the  giant's  strange 
extra  sense,  he  could  not  see,  anywhere  upon  the 
wide  country  round  about  them,  any  signs  of  the 
buffalo  to  which  he  was  sure  the  Mexican  meant  to 
call  his  attention. 

"  Vacas!  muchas,"  repeated  Juan  carelessly. 

"Lots  of  'em,  eh?  Well,  I'd  like  to  know 
where  they  are,  my  lily  of  the  valley,"  said  Curly, 
for  once  almost  incredulous.  And  then  he  stopped 
and  listened. — "  Hold  on,  boys,  listen,"  he  said. 
"  Look  out — look  out !  Here  they  cqrne !  " 

Every  ear  caught  the  faint  distant  pattering, 


96       THE  GIRL  AT   THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

which  grew  into  a  rapid  and  insistent  rumble. 
"  Cavalry,  b'gad !  "  cried  Battersleigh.  Franklin's 
eyes  shone.  He  spurred  forward  fast  as  he  could 
go,  jerking  loose  the  thong  which  held  his  rifle  fast 
in  the  scabbard  under  his  leg. 

The  tumultuous  roaring  rumble  came  on  stead- 
ily, the  more  apparent  by  a  widening  and  climbing 
cloud  of  dust,  which  betokened  that  a  body  of  large 
animals  was  coming  up  through  the  "  breaks  "  from 
the  bed  of  the  stream  to  the  prairie  on  which  the 
wagons  stood.  Presently  there  appeared  at  the 
brink,  looming  through  the  white  dust  cloud,  a 
mingling  mass  of  tangled,  surging  brown,  a  surface 
of  tossing,  hairy  backs,  spotted  with  darker  fronts, 
over  all  and  around  all  the  pounding  and  clacking 
of  many  hoofs.  It  was  the  stampede  of  the  buffalo 
which  had  been  disturbed  at  their  watering  place 
below,  and  which  had  headed  up  to  the  level  that 
they  might  the  better  make  their  escape  in  flight. 
Head  into  the  wind,  as  the  buffalo  alone  of  wild 
animals  runs,  the  herd  paid  no  heed  to  the  danger 
which  they  sought  to  escape,  but  upon  which  they 
were  now  coming  in  full  front.  The  horses  of  the 
hunters,  terrified  at  this  horrid  apparition  of  waving 
horned  heads  and  shaggy  manes,  plunged  and 
snorted  in  terror,  seeing  which  the  first  rank  of  the 
buffalo  in  turn  fell  smitten  of  panic,  and  braced  back 
to  avoid  the  evil  at  their  front.  Overturned  by  the 
crush  behind  them,  these  none  the  less  served  to 


THE  CHASE  97 

turn  the  course  of  the  remainder  of  the  herd,  which 
now  broke  away  to  the  right,  paralleling  the  course 
of  the  stream  and  leaving  the  wagons  of  the  hunters 
behind  them  and  at  their  left.  The  herd  carried 
now  upon  its  flank  three  figures  which  clung  along- 
side and  poured  sharp  blue  jets  of  smoke  into  the 
swirling  cloud  of  ashy  dust. 

It  was  neck  and  neck  for  the  three.  The  cow- 
boy, Curly,  had  slightly  the  advance  of  the  others, 
but  needed  to  spur  hard  to  keep  even  with  Batters- 
leigh,  the  old  cavalryman,  who  rode  with  weight 
back  and  hands  low,  as  though  it  were  cross  country 
in  old  Ireland.  Franklin  challenged  both  in  the 
run  up,  riding  with  the  confidence  of  the  man  who 
learned  the  saddle  young  in  life.  They  swerved 
slightly  apart  as  they  struck  the  flank  of  the  herd 
and  began  to  fire.  At  such  range  it  was  out  of  the 
question  to  miss.  Franklin  and  Battersleigh  killed 
two  buffaloes  each,  losing  other  head  by  reason  of 
delivering  their  fire  too  high  up  in  the  body,  a  com- 
mon fault  with  the  beginner  on  bison.  Curly  ran 
alongside  a  good  cow,  and  at  the  third  shot  was 
able  to  see  the  great  creature  stumble  and  fall.  Yet 
another  he  killed  before  his  revolver  was  empty. 
The  butchery  was  sudden  and  all  too  complete.  As 
they  turned  back  from  the  chase  they  saw  that  even 
Sam,  back  at  the  wagon,  where  he  had  been  unable 
to  get  saddle  upon  one  of  the  wagon  horses  in  time 
for  the  run,  had  been  able  to  kill  his  share.  Seeing 


98 


THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY   HOUSE 


the  horses  plunging,  Juan  calmly  went  to  their 
heads  and  held  them  quiet  by  main  strength,  one 
in  each  hand,  while  Sam  sprang  from  the  wagon 
and  by  a  long  shot  from  his  heavy  rifle  knocked 
down  a  good  fat  cow.  The  hunters  looked  at  the 
vast  bodies  lying  prostrate  along  the  ground  before 
them,  and  felt  remorse  at  their  intemperance. 

"  The  hunt's  over,"  said  Franklin,  looking  at  the 
dead  animals.  "  We've  enough  for  us  all." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Curly,  "  we  shore  got  meat,  and 
got  it  plenty  sudden. — Juan,  vamosy  pronto!"  He 
made  signs  showing  that  he  wished  the  Mexican 
to  skin  and  dress  the  buffalo,  and  the  latter,  as 
usual,  proceeded  to  give  immediate  and  unhesitat- 
ing obedience. 


CHAPTER   XI 

THE   BATTLE 

OCCUPIED  for  a  few  moments  with  the  others 
at  the  wagon,  Franklin  ceased  to  watch  Juan,  as 
he  went  slowly  but  not  unskilfully  about  the  work 
of  dressing  the  dead  buffalo.  Suddenly  he  heard  a 
cry,  and  looking  up,  saw  the  Mexican  running  hur- 
riedly toward  the  wagon  and  displaying  an  anima- 
tion entirely  foreign  to  his  ordinary  apathetic  habit. 
He  pointed  out  over  the  plain  as  he  came  on,  and 
called  out  excitedly:  " Indios!  Los  Indios!" 

The  little  party  cast  one  long,  careful  look  out 
toward  the  horizon,  upon  which  now  appeared  a 
thin,  waving  line  of  dust.  A  moment  later  the  two 
wagons  were  rolled  up  side  by  side,  the  horses  were 
fastened  securely  as  possible,  the  saddles  and 
blanket  rolls  were  tossed  into  breastworks  at  the 
ends  of  the  barricade,  and  all  the  feeble  defences 
possible  were  completed.  Four  rifles  looked  stead- 
ily out,  and  every  face  was  set  and  anxious,  except 
that  of  the  Mexican  who  had  given  the  alarm. 
Juan  was  restless,  and  made  as  though  to  go  forth 
to  meet  the  advancing  line. 

99 


100     THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

"  Vamos — me  vamos! "  he  said,  struggling  to 
get  past  Curly,  who  pushed  him  back. 

"Set    down,    d n    you — set    down!"     said 

Curly,  and  with  his  strange,  childlike  obedience,  the 
great  creature  sat  down  and  remained  for  a  mo- 
ment submissively  silent. 

The  indefinite  dust  line  turned  from  gray  to 
dark,  and  soon  began  to  show  colours — black,  red, 
roan,  piebald — as  the  ponies  came  on  with  what 
seemed  an  effect  of  a  tossing  sea  of  waving  manes 
and  tails,  blending  and  composing  with  the  deep 
sweeping  feather  trails  of  the  grand  war  bonnets. 
Hands  rose  and  fell  with  whips,  and  digging  heels 
kept  up  the  unison.  Above  the  rushing  of  the 
hoofs  there  came  forward  now  and  then  a  keen 
ululation.  Red-brown  bodies,  leaning,  working  up 
and  down,  rising  and  falling  with  the  motion  of  the 
ponies,  came  into  view,  dozens  of  them — scores 
of  them.  Their  moccasined  feet  were  turned  back 
under  the  horses'  bellies,  the  sinewy  legs  clamp- 
ing the  horse  from  thigh  to  ankle  as  the  wild  riders 
came  on,  with  no  bridle  governing  their  steeds 
other  than  the  jaw  rope's  single  strand. 

"  Good  cavalry,  b'gad !  "  said  Battersleigh  calm- 
ly, as  he  watched  them  in  their  perfect  horseman- ' 
ship.  "  See  'em  come ! "  Franklin's  eyes  drew 
their  brows  down  in  a  narrowing  frown,  though 
he  remained  silent,  as  was  his  wont  at  any  time  of 
stress. 


THE  BATTLri  IOt 

The  Indians  came  on,  close  up  to  the  barricade, 
where  they  saw  the  muzzles  of  four  rifles  following 
them  steadily,  a  sight  which  to  them  carried  a  cer- 
tain significance.  The  line  broke  and  wheeled, 
scattering,  circling,  still  rising  and  falling,  stream- 
ing in  hair  and  feathers,  and  now  attended  with  a 
wild  discord  of  high-keyed  yells. 

"  Keep  still,  boys ;  don't  shoot ! "  cried  Frank- 
lin instinctively.  "  Wait !  " 

It  was  good  advice.  The  mingling,  shifting 
line,  obedient  to  some  loud  word  of  command, 
swept  again  up  near  to  the  front  of  the  barricade, 
then  came  to  a  sudden  halt  with  half  the  forefeet  off 
the  ground.  The  ponies  shuffled  and  fidgeted,  and 
the  men  still  yelled  and  called  out  unintelligible 
sounds,  but  the  line  halted.  It  parted,  and  there 
rode  forward  an  imposing  figure. 

Gigantic,  savage,  stern,  clad  in  the  barbaric 
finery  of  his  race,  his  body  nearly  nude,  his  legs  and 
his  little  feet  covered  with  bead-laden  buckskin,  his 
head  surmounted  with  a  horned  war  bonnet  whose 
eagle  plumes  trailed  down  the  pony's  side  almost  to 
the  ground,  this  Indian  headman  made  a  picture 
not  easily  to  be  forgotten  nor  immediately  to  be 
despised.  He  sat  his  piebald  stallion  with  no  heed 
to  its  restive  prancing.  Erect,  immobile  as  a 
statue,  such  was  the  dignity  of  his  carriage,  such 
the  stroke  of  his  untamed  eye,  that  each  man 
behind  the  barricade  sank  lower  and  gripped  his 


tO>.     THE  GIRL  AT   THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

gun  more  tightly.     This  was  a  personality  not  to  be 
held  in  any  hasty  or  ill-advised  contempt. 

The  Indian  walked  his  horse  directly  up  to  the  f 
barricade,  his  eye  apparently  scorning  to  take  in 
its  crude  details. 

"Me,  White  Calf!"  he  exclaimed  in  English, 
like  the  croak  of  a  parrot,  striking  his  hand  upon 
his  breast  with  a  gesture  which  should  have  been 
ludicrous  or  pompous,  but  was  neither.  "  Me, 
White  Calf ! "  said  the  chief  again,  and  lifted  the 
medal  which  lay  upon  his  breast.  "  Good.  White 
man  come.  White  man  go.  Me  hunt,  now !  " 

He  swept  his  arm  about  in  a  gesture  which  in- 
cluded the  horizon,  and  indicated  plainly  his  con- 
viction that  all  the  land  belonged  to  him  and  his 
own  people.  So  he  stood,  silent,  and  waiting  with 
no  nervousness  for  the  diplomacy  of  the  others. 

Franklin  stepped  boldly  out  from  the  barricade 
and  extended  his  hand.  "White  Calf,  good  friend," 
said  he.  The  Indian  took  his  hand  without  a  smile, 
and  with  a  look  which  Franklin  felt  go  through 
him.  At  last  the  chief  grunted  out  something,  and, 
dismounting,  seated  himself  down  upon  the  ground, 
young  men  taking  his  horse  and  leading  it  away. 
Others,  apparently  also  of  rank,  came  and  sat  down. 
Franklin  and  his  friends  joined  the  rude  circle  of 
what  they  were  glad  to  see  was  meant  to  be  an  im- 
promptu council. 

White   Calf  arose  and   faced  the   white   men. 


THE  BATTLE  IO3 

"  White  men  go !  "  he  said,  his  voice  rising.  "  In- 
jun heap  shoot ! " 

"  B'gad,  I  believe  the  haythen  thinks  he  can 
scare  us,"  said  Battersleigh,  calmly. 

Franklin  pointed  to  the  carcasses  of  the  buffalo, 
and  made  signs  that  after  they  had  taken  the  meat 
of  the  buffalo  they  would  go.  Apparently  he  was 
understood.  Loud  words  arose  among  the  In- 
dians, and  White  Calf  answered,  gesticulating  ex- 
citedly : 

"  Heap  good  horse ! "  he  said,  pointing  to  the 
horses  of  the  party.  "  White  man  go !  Injun  heap 
get  horse !  Injun  heap  shoot ! " 

"  This  is  d d  intimidation !  "  shouted  Bat- 
tersleigh, starting  up  and  shaking  a  fist  in  White 
Calf's  face. 

"  Give  up  our  horses  ?  Not  by  a  d d 

sight !  "  said  Curly.  "  You  can  heap  shoot  if  you 
want  to  turn  loose,  but  you'll  never  set  me  afoot  out 
here,  not  while  I'm  a-knowin'  it ! " 

The  situation  was  tense,  and  Franklin  felt  his 
heart  thumping,  soldier  though  he  was.  He  began 
to  step  back  toward  the  wagons  with  his  friends. 
A  confused  and  threatening  uproar  arose  among 
the  Indians,  who  now  began  to  crowd  forward.  It 
was  an  edged  instant.  Any  second  might  bring  on 
the  climax. 

And  suddenly  the  climax  came.  From  the  bar- 
ricade at  the  rear  there  rose  a  cry,  half  roar  and  half 


IO4     THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

challenge.  The  giant  Mexican  Juan,  for  a  time 
quieted  by  Curly's  commands,  was  now  seized  upon 
by  some  impulse  which  he  could  no  longer  control. 
He  came  leaping  from  behind  the  wagons,  bran- 
dishing the  long  knife  with  which  he  had  been  en- 
gaged upon  the  fallen  buffalo. 

"  Indios! "  he  cried,  "  Indies! "  and  what  fol- 
lowed of  his  speech  was  only  incoherent  savage 
babblings.  He  would  have  darted  alone  into  the 
thick  of  the  band  had  not  Franklin  and  Curly 
caught  him  each  by  a  leg  as  he  passed. 

The  chief,  White  Calf,  moved  never  a  muscle 
in  his  face  as  he  saw  his  formidable  adversary  com- 
ing on,  nor  did  he  join  in  the  murmurs  that  arose 
among  his  people.  Rather  there  came  a  glint  into 
his  eye,  a  shade  of  exultation  in  his  heavy  face. 
"  Big  chief!  "  he  said,  simply.  "  Heap  fight !  " 

"  You  bet  your  blame  life  he'll  heap  fight !  "  said 
Curly,  from  his  position  upon  Juan's  brawny  breast 
as  he  held  him  down.  "  He's  good  for  any  two  of 
you,  you  screechin'  cowards !  " 

Curly's  words  were  perhaps  not  fully  under- 
stood, yet  the  import  of  his  tone  was  unmistakable. 
There  was  a  stirring  along  the  line,  as  though  a 
snake  rustled  in  the  grass.  The  horse-holders  were 
crowding  up  closer.  There  were  bows  drawn  for- 
ward over  the  shoulders  of  many  young  men,  and 
arrows  began  to  shiver  on  the  string  under  their 
itching  fingers.  Once  more  Franklin  felt  that  the 


THE   BATTLE  105 

last  moment  had  come,  and  he  and  Battersleigh  still 
pressed  back  to  the  wagons  where  the  rifles  lay. 

The  Indian  chief  raised  his  hand  and  came  for- 
ward, upon  his  face  some  indescribable  emotion 
which  removed  it  from  mere  savagery,  some  half- 
chivalrous  impulse  born  perhaps  of  a  barbaric  ego- 
tism and  self-confidence,  perhaps  of  that  foolhardy 
and  vain  love  of  risk  which  had  made  White  Calf 
chief  of  his  people  and  kept  him  so.  He  stood 
silent  for  a  moment,  his  arms  folded  across  his 
breast  with  that  dramatic  instinct  never  absent  from 
the  Indian's  mind.  When  he  spoke,  the  scorn  and 
bravado  in  his  voice  were  apparent,  and  his  words 
were  understood  though  his  speech  was  broken. 

"  Big  chief ! "  he  said,  pointing  toward  Juan. 
"  White  Calf,  me  big  chief,"  pointing  to  himself. 
"  Heap  fight !  "  Then  he  clinched  his  hands  and 
thrust  them  forward,  knuckles  downward,  the  In- 
dian sign  for  death,  for  falling  dead  or  being  struck 
down.  With  his  delivery  this  was  unmistakable. 
"  Me,"  he  said,  "  me  dead ;  white  man  go.  Big 
chief "  (meaning  Juan),  "  him  dead ;  Injun  heap 
take  horse,"  including  in  the  sweep  of  his  gesture 
all  the  outfit  of  the  white  men. 

"  He  wants  to  fight  Juan  by  himself,"  cried 
Franklin. 

"  Yes,  and  b'gad  he's  doin'  it  for  pure  love  of 
a  fight,  and  hurray  for  him!"  cried  Battersleigh. 
"  Hurray,  boys !  Give  him  a  cheer !  "  And,  car- 


106     THE  GIRL  AT   THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

tied  away  for  the  moment  by  Battersleigh's  own 
dare-deviltry,  as  well  as  a  man's  admiration  for 
pluck,  they  did  rise  and  give  him  a  cheer,  even  to 
Sam,  who  had  hitherto  been  in  line,  but  very 
silent.  They  cheered  old  White  Calf,  self-offered 
champion,  knowing  that  he  had  death  in  a  hundred 
blankets  at  his  back. 

The  meaning  of  the  white  men  was  also  clear. 
The  grim  face  of  White  Calf  relaxed  for  a  moment 
into  something  like  a  half-smile  of  pride.  "  Heap 
fight ! "  he  repeated  simply,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
vast  form  of  the  babbling  giant.  He  dropped  his 
blanket  fully  back  from  his  body  and  stood  with 
his  eyes  boring  forward  at  his  foe,  his  arms  crossed 
arrogantly  over  his  naked,  ridging  trunk,  proud, 
confident,  superb,  a  dull-hued  statue  whose  out- 
lines none  who  witnessed  ever  again  forgot. 

There  was  no  time  to  parley  or  to  decide.  Fate 
acted  rapidly  through  the  agency  of  a  half-witted 
mind.  Juan  the  Mexican  was  regarding  the  In- 
dian intently.  Perhaps  he  gathered  but  little  of  the 
real  meaning  of  that  which  had  transpired,  but 
something  in  the  act  or  look  of  the  chieftain  aroused 
and  enraged  him.  He  saw  and  understood  the  chal- 
lenge, and  he  counted  nothing  further.  With  one 
swift  upheaval  of  his  giant  body,  he  shook  off  re- 
straining hands  and  sprang  forward.  He  stripped 
off  his  own  light  upper  garment,  and  stood  as  naked 
and  more  colossal  than  his  foe.  Weapon  of  his 


THE   BATTLE 


107 


own  he  had  none,  nor  cared  for  any.  More  primi- 
tive even  than  his  antagonist,  he  sought  for  nothing 
better  than  the  first  weapon  of  primeval  man,  a  club, 
which  should  extend  the  sweep  of  his  own  arm. 
From  the  hand  of  the  nearest  Indian  he  snatched  a 
war  club,  not  dissimilar  to  that  which  hung  at 
White  Calf's  wrist,  a  stone-headed  beetle,  grooved 
and  bound  fast  with  rawhide  to  a  long,  slender, 
hard-wood  handle,  which  in  turn  was  sheathed  in  a 
heavy  rawhide  covering,  shrunk  into  a  steel-like  re- 
enforcement.  Armed  alike,  naked  alike,  savage 
alike,  and  purely  animal  in  the  blind  desire  of  battle, 
the  two  were  at  issue  before  a  hand  could  stay  them. 
All  chance  of  delay  or  separation  was  gone.  Both 
white  and  red  men  fell  back  and  made  arena  for 
a  unique  and  awful  combat. 

There  was  a  moment  of  measuring,  that  grim 
advance  balance  struck  when  two  strong  men  meet 
for  a  struggle  which  for  either  may  end  alone  in 
death.  The  Indian  was  magnificent  in  mien,  su- 
perb in  confidence.  Fear  was  not  in  him.  His 
vast  figure,  nourished  on  sweet  meat  of  the  plains, 
fed  by  pure  air  and  developed  by  continual  exercise, 
showed  like  the  torso  of  a  minor  Hercules,  power- 
ful but  not  sluggish  in  its  power.  His  broad  and 
deep  chest,  here  and  there  spotted  with  white  scars, 
arched  widely  for  the  vital  organs,  but  showed  no 
clogging  fat.  His  legs  were  corded  and  thin.  His 
arms  were  also  slender,  but  showing  full  of  easy- 


108     THE  GIRL  AT   THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

playing  muscles  with  power  of  rapid  and  unham- 
pered strength.  Two  or  three  inches  above  the  six- 
feet  mark  he  stood  as  he  cast  off  his  war  bonnet  and 
swept  back  a  hand  over  the  standing  eagle  plumes, 
whipped  fast  to  his  braided  hair.  White  Calf  was 
himself  a  giant. 

Yet  huge  and  menacing  as  he  stood,  the  figure 
opposed  to  him  was  still  more  formidable.  Juan 
the  moso  overtopped  him  by  nearly  half  a  head,  and 
was  as  broad  or  broader  in  the  shoulder.  His  body, 
a  dull  brown  in  colour,  showed  smoother  than  that 
of  his  enemy,  the  muscles  not  having  been  brought 
out  by  unremitted  exercise.  Yet  under  that  bulk 
of  flesh  there  lay  no  man  might  tell  how  much  of 
awful  vigour.  The  loop  of  the  war  club  would  not 
slip  over  his  great  hand.  He  caught  it  in  his  fin- 
gers and  made  the  weapon  hum  about  his  head,  as 
some  forgotten  ancestor  of  his,  tall  Navajo,  or  for- 
gotten cave  dweller,  may  have  done  before  the 
Spaniard  came.  The  weapon  seemed  to  him  like  a 
toy,  and  he  cast  his  eye  about  for  another  more 
commensurate  with  his  strength,  but,  seeing  none, 
forgot  the  want,  and  in  the  sheer  ignorance  of  fear 
which  made  his  bravery,  began  the  fight  as  though 
altogether  careless  of  its  end. 

White  Calf  was  before  his  people,  whose  chief 
he  was  by  reason  of  his  personal  prowess,  and  with 
all  the  vanity  of  his  kind  he  exulted  in  this  oppor- 
tunity of  displaying  his  fitness  for  his  place.  Yet 


THE   BATTLE  109 

in  him  natural  bravery  had  a  qualifying  caution, 
which  was  here  obviously  well  justified.  The  Mexi- 
can made  direct  assault,  rushing  on  with  battle  axe 
poised  as  though  to  end  it  all  with  one  imme- 
diate blow.  With  guard  and  parry  he  was  more 
careless  than  the  wild  bull  of  the  Plains,  which 
meets  his  foe  in  direct  impetuous  assault.  White 
Calf  was  not  so  rash.  He  stepped  quickly  back 
from  the  attack,  and  as  the  mozo  plunged  forward 
from  the  impulse  of  his  unchecked  blow,  the  In- 
dian swept  sternly  at  him  with  the  full  force  of  his 
extended  arm.  The  caution  of  the  chief,  and  the 
luck  of  a  little  thing,  each  in  turn  prevented  the 
ending  of  the  combat  at  its  outset.  Half  falling  on- 
ward, the  Mexican  slipped  upon  a  tuft  of  the  hard 
gray  grass  and  went  down  headlong.  A  murmur 
arose  from  the  Indians,  who  thought  at  first  that 
their  leader's  blow  had  proved  fatal.  A  sharp  call 
from  Curly  seemed  to  bring  the  Mexican  to  his  feet 
at  once.  The  Indian  lost  the  half  moment  which 
was  his  own.  Again  the  two  engaged,  White  Calf 
now  seeking  to  disconcert  the  Mexican,  whom  he 
discovered  to  be  less  agile  than  himself.  Darting 
in  and  out,  jumping  rapidly  from  side  to  side,  and 
uttering  the  while  the  sharp  staccato  of  his  war 
call,  he  passed  about  the  Mexican,  half  circling  and 
returning,  his  eye  fixed  straight  upon  the  other's, 
and  his  war  club  again  and  again  hurtling  danger- 
ously close  to  his  opponent's  head.  One  shade 


HO     THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

more  of  courage,  one  touch  more  of  the  daring 
necessary  to  carry  him  a  single  foot  closer  in,  and 
the  victory  had  been  with  him,  for  no  human  skull 
could  have  withstood  the  impact  of  a  pound  of  flint 
impelled  by  an  arm  so  powerful. 

Juan  the  mozo  stood  almost  motionless,  his  own 
club  half  raised,  the  great  muscles  of  his  arm  now 
showing  under  the  brown  skin  as  he  clinched  hard 
the  tiny  stem  of  the  weapon.  He  seemed  not  per- 
turbed by  the  menaces  of  the  chieftain,  and  though 
unaware  that  the  latter  must  in  time  suffer  from  the 
violence  of  his  own  exertions,  nevertheless  re- 
mained the  fuller  master  of  his  own  forces  by  simply 
waiting  in  this  one  position.  His  readiness  for 
offence  was  the  one  defence  that  he  offered.  His 
brute  courage  had  no  mental  side.  The  whistling 
of  this  threatening  weapon  was  unheeded,  since  it 
did  not  hurt  him.  He  glared  in  fury  at  the  Indian, 
but  always  his  arm  remained  half  raised,  his  foot 
but  shifted,  side  stepping  and  turning  only  enough 
to  keep  him  with  front  toward  his  antagonist.  The 
desperate,  eager  waiting  of  his  attitude  was  awful. 
.The  whisper  of  the  wings  of  death  was  on  the  air 
about  this  place.  The  faces  of  the  white  men  wit- 
nessing the  spectacle  were  drawn  and  haggard.  A 
gulp,  a  sigh,  a  half  groan  now  and  again  came  from 
their  parted  lips. 

White  Calf  pursued  his  rapid  tactics  for  some 
moments,  and  a  dozen  times  sped  a  blow  which  still 


THE   BATTLE  III 

fell  short.  He  gained  confidence,  and  edged  closer 
in.  He  feinted  and  sprang  from  side  to  side,  but 
gained  little  ground.  His  people  saw  his  purpose, 
and  murmurs  of  approval  urged  him  on.  It  seemed 
that  in  a  moment  he  must  land  the  fatal  blow  upon 
his  apparently  half-stupefied  opponent.  He  sought 
finally  to  deliver  this  blow,  but  the  effort  was  near 
to  proving  his  ruin.  Just  as  he  swung  forward,  the 
giant,  with  a  sudden  contraction  of  all  his  vast 
frame,  sprang  out  and  brought  down  his  war  axe 
in  a  sheer  downward  blow  at  half-arm's  length. 
White  Calf  with  lightning  speed  changed  his  own 
attack  into  defence,  sweeping  up  his  weapon  to  de- 
fend his  head.  On  the  instant  his  arm  was  beaten 
down.  It  fell  helpless  at  his  side,  the  axe  only 
hanging  to  his  hand  by  means  of  the  loop  passed 
around  the  wrist.  A  spasm  of  pain  crossed  his  face 
at  the  racking  agony  in  the  nerves  of  his  arm,  yet 
he  retained  energy  enough  to  spring  back,  and  still 
he  stood  erect.  A  cry  of  dismay  burst  from  the  fol- 
lowers of  the  red  champion  and  a  keen  yell  from 
the  whites,  unable  to  suppress  their  exultation. 
Yet  at  the  next  moment  the  partisans  of  either  had 
become  silent;  for,  though  the  Indian  seemed  dis- 
abled, the  moso  stood  before  him  weaponless.  The 
tough,  slender  rod  which  made  the  handle  of  his 
war  axe  had  snapped  like  a  pipestem  under  the  force 
of  his  blow,  and  even  the  rawhide  covering  was  torn 
loose  from  the  head  of  stone,  which  lay,  with  a  foot 


H2      THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

of  the  broken  hard-wood  staff  still  attached,  upon 
the  ground  between  the  two  antagonists. 

Juan  cast  away  the  bit  of  rod  still  in  his  hand 
and  rushed  forward  against  his  enemy,  seeking  to 
throttle  him  with  his  naked  fingers.  White  Calf, 
quicker-witted  of  the  two,  slung  the  thong  of  his  war 
club  free  from  his  crippled  right  hand,  and,  grasping 
the  weapon  in  his  left,  still  made  play  with  it  about 
his  head.  The  giant  none  the  less  rushed  in,  receiv- 
ing upon  his  shoulder  a  blow  from  the  left  hand  of 
the  Indian  which  cut  the  flesh  clean  to  the  collar 
bone,  in  a  great  bruised  wound  which  was  covered 
at  once  with  a  spurt  of  blood.  The  next  instant  the 
two  fell  together,  the  Indian  beneath  his  mighty 
foe,  and  the  two  writhing  in  a  horrible  embrace. 
The  hands  of  the  moso  gripped  the  Indian's  throat, 
and  he  uttered  a  rasping,  savage  roar  of  triumph, 
more  beastlike  than  human,  as  he  settled  hard  upon 
the  chest  of  the  enemy  whose  life  he  was  chok- 
ing out.  Again  rose  the  savage  cries  of  the  on- 
lookers. 

Not  even  yet  had  the  end  come.  There  was  a 
heaving  struggle,  a  sharp  cry,  and  Juan  sprang 
back,  pressing  his  hand  against  his  side,  where 
blood  came  from  between  his  fingers.  The  Indian 
had  worked  his  left  hand  to  the  sheath  of  his  knife, 
and  stabbed  the  giant  who  had  so  nearly  overcome 
him.  Staggering,  the  two  again  stood  erect,  and  yet 
again  came  the  cries  from  the  many  red  men  and 


THE  BATTLE 

the  little  band  of  whites  who  were  witnessing  this 
barbarous  and  brutal  struggle.  Bows  were  bend- 
ing among  the  blankets,  but  the  four  rifles  now 
pointed  steadily  out.  One  movement  would  have 
meant  death  to  many,  but  that  movement  was  fore- 
stalled in  the  still  more  rapid  happenings  of  the  un- 
finished combat.  For  one-half  second  the  two  fight- 
ing men  stood  apart,  the  one  stunned  at  his  unex- 
pected wound,  the  other  startled  that  the  wound 
had  not  proved  fatal.  Seeing  his  antagonist  still 
on  his  feet,  White  Calf  for  the  first  time  lost  cour- 
age. With  the  knife  still  held  in  his  left  hand,  he 
hesitated  whether  to  join  again  in  the  encounter,  or 
himself  to  guard  against  the  attack  of  a  foe  so  proof 
to  injury.  He  half  turned  and  gave  back  for  a 
pace. 

The  man  pursued  by  a  foe  looks  about  him 
quickly  for  that  weapon  nearest  to  his  own  hand. 
The  dread  of  steel  drove  Juan  to  bethink  himself  of 
a  weapon.  He  saw  it  at  his  feet,  and  again  he 
roared  like  an  angry  bull,  his  courage  and  his  pur- 
pose alike  unchanged.  He  stooped  and  clutched 
the  broken  war  axe,  grasping  the  stone  head  in  the 
palm  of  his  great  hand,  the  jagged  and  ironlike 
shaft  projecting  from  between  his  fingers  like  the 
blade  of  a  dagger.  With  the  leap  of  a  wild  beast 
he  sprang  again  upon  his  foe.  White  Calf  half 
turned,  but  the  left  hand  of  the  giant  caught  him 
and  held  him  up  against  the  fatal  stroke.  The 


1X4     THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

sharp  shaft  of  wood  struck  the  Indian  in  the  side 
above  the  hip,  quartering  through  till  the  stone 
head  sunk  against  the  flesh  with  a  fearful  sound. 
With  a  scream  the  victim  straightened  and  fell  for- 
ward. The  horrid  spectacle  was  over. 


CHAPTER  XII 

WHAT  THE   HAND   HAD   TO    DO 

IN  this  wide,  new  world  of  the  West  there  were 
but  few  artificial  needs,  and  the  differentiation  of 
industries  was  alike  impossible  and  undesired. 
Each  man  was  his  own  cook,  his  own  tailor,  his  own 
mechanic  in  the  simple  ways  demanded  by  the  sur- 
roundings about  him.  Each  man  was  as  good  as 
his  neighbour,  for  his  neighbour  as  well  as  himself 
perforce  practised  a  half-dozen  crafts  and  suffered 
therefrom  neither  in  his  own  esteem  nor  that  of 
those  about  him.  The  specialists  of  trade,  of  arti- 
sanship,  of  art,  were  not  yet  demanded  in  this  envi- 
ronment where  each  man  in  truth  "  took  care  of 
himself,"  and  had  small  dependence  upon  others. 

In  all  the  arts  of  making  one's  self  comfortable 
in  a  womanless  and  hence  a  homeless  land  both 
Franklin  and  Battersleigh,  experienced  campaign- 
ers as  they  were,  found  themselves  much  aided  by 
the  counsel  of  Curly,  the  self-reliant  native  of  the 
soil  who  was  Franklin's  first  acquaintance  in  that 
land.  It  was  Curly  who  helped  them  with  their 
houses  and  in  their  household  supplies.  It  was  he 


Il6     THE  GIRL  AT   THE  HALFWAY   HOUSE 

who  told  them  now  and  then  of  a  new  region  where 
the  crop  of  bones  was  not  yet  fully  gathered.  It 
was  he  who  showed  them  how  to  care  for  the  little 
number  of  animals  which  they  began  to  gather 
about  them;  and  who,  in  short,  gave  to  them  full 
knowledge  of  the  best  ways  of  exacting  a  subsist- 
ence from  the  land  which  they  had  invaded. 

One  morning  Franklin,  thinking  to  have  an 
additional  buffalo  robe  for  the  coming  winter,  and 
knowing  no  manner  in  which  he  could  get  the  hide 
tanned  except  through  his  own  efforts,  set  about  to 
do  this  work  for  himself,  ignorant  of  the  extent  of 
his  task,  and  relying  upon  Curly  for  advice  as  to  the 
procedure. 

Curly  sat  on  his  horse  and  looked  on  with  con- 
tempt as  Franklin  flung  down  the  raw  skin  upon 
the  ground. 

"  You've  shore  tackled  a  bigger  job  than  you 
know  anything  about,  Cap,"  said  he,  "  and,  besides 
that,  it  ain't  a  job  fittin'  fer  a  man  to  do.  You 
ought  to  git  some  squaw  to  do  that  for  you." 

"  But,  you  see,  there  aren't  any  squaws  around," 
said  Franklin,  smiling.  "  If  you'll  tell  me  just  how 
the  Indians  do  it  I'll  try  to  see  how  good  a  job  I  can 
make  of  it." 

Curly  shifted  his  leg  in  his  saddle  and  his  cud 
in  his  mouth,  and  pushing  his  hat  back  on  his  fore- 
head, assumed  the  position  of  superintendent. 

"  Well,  it'll  take  you  a  long  time,"  said  he,  "  but 


WHAT  THE  HAND  HAD  TO  DO      117 

I  'low  it  ain't  no  use  tellin'  you  not  to  begin,  fer 
you'll  just  spile  a  good  hide  anyhow.  First  thing 
you  do,  you  stretch  yer  hide  out  on  the  ground,  fur 
side  down,  and  hold  it  there  with  about  six  hundred 
pegs  stuck  down  around  the  edges.  It'll  take  you  a 
week  to  do  that.  Then  you  take  a  knife  and  scrape 
all  the  meat  off  the  hide.  That  sounds  easy,  but  it'll 
take  about  another  week.  Then  you  git  you  a 
little  hoe,  made  out  of  a  piece  of  steel,  and  you  dig, 
and  dig,  and  dig  at  that  hide  till  you  git  some  more 
meat  off,  and  begin  to  shave  it  down,  thin  like. 
You  got  to  git  all  the  grease  out  of  it,  an'  you  got 
to  make  all  the  horny  places  soft.  Time  you  git  it 
dug  down  right  it'll  take  you  about  a  year,  I  reckon, 
and  then  you  ain't  done.  You  got  to  git  brains — 
buffalo  brains  is  best — and  smear  all  over  it,  and  let 
'em  dry  in.  Then  you  got  to  take  your  hide  up 
and  rub  it  till  it's  plum  soft.  That'll  take  you  a 
couple  of  weeks,  I  reckon.  Then  you  kin  smoke  it, 
if  you  have  got  any  place  to  smoke  it,  an'  that'll  take 
you  a  week,  if  you  don't  burn  it  up.  Sometimes 
you  kin  whiten  a  hide  by  rubbin'  it  with  white  clay, 
if  you  can  git  any  clay.  That  might  take  you  a  few 
days  longer.  Oh,  yes,  I  reckon  you  kin  git  the 
hide  tanned  if  you  live  long  enough.  You'd  ought 
to  put  up  a  sign,  '  Captain  Franklin,  Attorney  at 
Law,  an'  Hide  Tanner/  " 

Franklin  laughed  heartily  at  Curly's  sarcasm. 
"  There's  one  thing  sure,  Curly,"  said  he ;  "  if  I  ever 


Il8     THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

get  this  thing  done  I  shall  have  to  do  the  work  my- 
self, for  no  one  ever  knew  you  to  do  any  work  but 
ride  a  horse.  Now,  I  think  I  can  tan  this  hide,  and 
do  it  in  less  than  a  year,  and  in  less  than  a  week,  too. 
I  can  peg  it  out,  and  I  can  make  me  the  iron  hoe, 
and  I  can  soften  the  hide  with  brains,  and  I  can  rub 
it  until  it  is  finished.  I  have,  or  can  get,  about  all 
the  ingredients  you  mention  except  the  clay.  If  I 
had  some  white  pipe  clay  I  believe  I  could  really 
make  me  a  beautiful  robe  for  a  counterpane  for  my 
bed  next  winter." 

"  If  it's  only  clay  you  want,"  said  Curly  lazily, 
"  I  can  git  you  plenty  of  that." 

"Where?"  said  Franklin. 

"  Over  in  a  little  holler,  to  the  crick  back  o' 
town,"  said  Curly.  "  You  go  on  an'  tack  out  your 
hide,  an*  I'll  ride  over  and  git  you  some." 

"  How'll  you  carry  it,"  said  Franklin,  "  if  you 
go  on  horseback  ?  " 

"  Kerry  it ! "  said  Curly  contemptuously. 
"  How'd  you  s'pose  I'd  kerry  it  ?  Why,  in  my 
hat,  o'  course ! "  and  he  rode  off  without  deigning 
further  explanation.  Franklin  remained  curious 
regarding  this  episode  until,  an  hour  later,  Curly 
rode  up  to  the  house  again,  carrying  his  hat  by  the 
brim,  with  both  hands  before  him,  and  guiding  his 
pony  with  his  knees.  He  had,  indeed,  a  large  lump 
of  white,  soft  clay,  which  he  carried  by  denting  in 
the  crown  of  his  hat  and  crowding  the  clay  into 


WHAT  THE  HAND  HAD  TO  DO     119 

the  hollow.  After  throwing  down  the  clay  and 
slapping  the  hat  a  few  times  on  his  knee,  he  seemed 
to  think  his  headgear  not  injured  by  this  trans- 
action. 

"There's  yer  blamed  clay,"  said  he;  "it'll  be  a 
good  while  before  you  need  it,  but  there  she  is." 

The  two  were  joined  at  this  juncture  by  Batters- 
leigh,  who  had  come  over  to  pay  a  morning  visit, 
and  who  now  stood  looking  on  with  some  interest 
at  the  preparations  in  progress. 

"  It's  makin'  ye  a  robe  is  it,  Ned,  me  boy  ?  "  said 
he.  "  I'm  bound  it's  a  fine  thing  ye'll  do.  I'll  give 
yer  four  dollars  if  ye'll  do  as  much  for  me.  Ye 
wouldn't  be  leavin'  old  Batty  to  sleep  cold  o'  nights, 
now,  wud  ye,  Ned  ?  " 

"  Oh,  go  tan  your  own  robes,"  said  Franklin 
cheerfully.  "  I'm  not  in  the  wholesale  line." 

"  You  might  git  Juan  to  tan  you  all  one  or  two," 
said  Curly.  "  He  kin  tan  ez  good  ez  ary  Injun  ever 
was." 

"  But,  by  the  way,  Curly,"  said  Franklin,  "  how 
is  Juan  this  morning?  We  haven't  heard  from  him 
for  a  day  or  two." 

"  Oh,  him  ?  "  said  Curly.  "  Why,  he's  all  right. 
He's  just  been  layin'  'round  a  little,  like  a  dog  that's 
been  cut  up  some  in  a  wolf  fight,  but  he's  all  right 
now.  Shoulder's  about  well,  an*  as  fer  the  knife- 
cut,  it  never  did  amount  to  nothin'  much.  You 
can't  hurt  a  Greaser  much,  not  noways  such  a  big 


120     THE  GIRL  AT  THE   HALFWAY  HOUSE 

one  as  Juan.  But  didn't  he  git  action  in  that  little 
difficulty  o'  his'n?  You  could  a-broke  the  whole 
Cheyenne  tribe,  if  you  could  a-got  a-bettin'  with  'em 
before  that  fight." 

"  Odds  was  a  hundred  to  one  against  us,  shure," 
said  Battersleigh,  seating  himself  in  the  doorway  of 
the  shack.  "  Ye  may  call  the  big  boy  loco,  or 
whativer  ye  like,  but  it's  grateful  we  may  be  to  him. 
An'  tell  me,  if  ye  can,  why  didn't  the  haythins  pile 
in  an'  polish  us  all  off,  after  their  chief  lost  his  num- 
ber? No,  they  don't  rush  our  works,  but  off  they 
go  trailin',  as  if  'twas  themselves  had  the  odds 
against  'em,  och-honin'  fit  to  set  ye  crazy,  an'  car- 
ryin'  their  dead,  as  if  the  loss  o'  one  man  ended  the 
future  o'  the  tribe.  Faith,  they  might  have —  Ned, 
ye're  never  stretchin'  that  hide  right." 

"  Them  Cheyennes  was  plenty  hot  at  us  fer 
comin'  in  on  their  huntin'  grounds,"  said  Curly, 
"  an'  they  shore  had  it  in  fer  us.  I  don't  think  it 
was  what  their  chief  said  to  them  that  kep'  them 
back  from  jumpin'  us,  ater  the  fight  was  over.  It's 
a  blame  sight  more  likely  that  they  got  a  sort  o' 
notion  in  their  heads  that  Juan  was  bad  medicine. 
If  they  get  it  in  their  minds  that  a  man  is  loco,  an* 
pertected  by  spirits,  an'  that  sort  o'  thing,  they  won't 
figtit  him,  fer  fear  o'  gettin'  the  worst  of  it.  That's 
about  why  we  got  out  of  there,  I  reckon.  They'd 
a-took  our  hosses  an'  our  guns  an*  our  meat,  an* 
been  blame  apt  not  to  a-fergot  our  hair,  too,  if  they 


WHAT  THE  HAND  HAD  TO  DO     121 

hadn't  got  the  idee  that  Juan  was  too  much  fer  'em. 
I'll  bet  they  won't  come  down  in  there  again  in  a 
hundred  years ! " 

"  I  felt  sad  for  them,"  said  Franklin  soberly. 

Curly  smiled  slowly.  "Well,  Cap,"  said  he, 
"  they's  a  heap  o'  things  out  in  this  here  country 
that  seems  right  hard  till  you  git  used  to  'em.  But 
what's  the  ust  carin'  'bout  a  dead  Injun  here  or 
there  ?  They  got  to  go,  one  at  a  time,  or  more  in  a 
bunch.  But  now,  do  you  know  what  they  just 
done  with  ole  Mr.  White  Calf?  Why,  they  taken 
him  out  along  with  'em  a  ways,  till  they  thought  we 
was  fur  enough  away  from  'em,  an'  then  they  prob- 
ably got  a  lot  of  poles  tied  up,  or  else  found  a  tree, 
an'  they  planted  him  on  top  of  a  scaffold,  like  jerked 
beef,  an'  left  him  there  fer  to  dry  a-plenty,  with  all 
his  war  clothes  on  and  his  gun  along  with  him. 
Else,  if  they  couldn't  git  no  good  place  like  that, 
they  likely  taken  him  up  on  to  a  highish  hill,  er  some 
rocky  place,  an'  there  they  covered  him  up  good  an' 
deep  with  rocks,  so'st  the  wolves  wouldn't  bother 
him  any.  They  tell  me  them  buryin'  hills  is  great 
places  fer  their  lookouts,  an'  sometimes  their  folks'll 
go  up  on  top  o'  them  hills  and  set  there  a  few  days, 
or  maybe  overnight,  a-hopin'  they'll  dream  some- 
thing. They  want  to  dream  something  that'll  give 
'em  a  better  line  on  how  to  run  off  a  whole  cavvie- 
vard  o'  white  men's  bosses,  next  time  they  git  a 

chanct." 

9 


122     THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

"Ye're  a  d d  Philistine,  Curly,"  said  Bat- 

tersleigh  calmly. 

"  I'm  sorry  for  them,"  repeated  Franklin, 
thoughtfully,  as  he  sat  idly  fingering  the  lump  of 
clay  that  lay  between  his  feet.  "  Just  think,  we  are 
taking  away  from  these  people  everything  in  the 
world  they  had.  They  were  happy  as  we  are — hap- 
pier, perhaps — and  they  had  their  little  ambitions, 
the  same  as  we  have  ours.  We  are  driving  them 
away  from  their  old  country,  all  over  the  West, 
until  it  is  hard  to  see  where  they  can  get  a  foothold 
to  call  their  own.  We  drive  them  and  fight  them 
and  kill  them,  and  then — well,  then  we  forget 
them." 

Curly  had  a  certain  sense  of  politeness,  so  he 
kept  silence  for  a  time.  "  Well,"  said  he  at  length, 
"  a  Injun  could  tan  hides  better 'n  a  white  man  kin — 
at  least  some  white  men." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  Franklin,  rous- 
ing and  replying  stoutly.  "  The  white  man  wins 
by  dodging  the  issue.  Now,  look  you,  the  Indian 
squaw  you  tell  me  about  would  probably  hack  and 
hack  away  at  this  hide  by  main  strength  in  getting 
the  flesh  off  the  inside.  I  am  sure  I  shall  do  it 
better,  because  I  shall  study  which  way  the  muscles 
run,  and  so  strip  off  the  flesh  along  those  lines,  and 
not  across  them." 

"  I  didn't  know  that  made  any  difference,"  said 
Curly.  "  Besides,  how  kin  you  tell?  " 


WHAT  THE  HAND  HAD  TO  DO      123 

"  Well,  now,  maybe  there  are  some  things  you 
don't  know,  after  all,  Curly,"  said  Franklin.  "  For 
instance,  can  you  tell  me  how  many  boss  ribs  there 
are  in  the  hump  of  a  buffalo  ?  " 

"  Well,  no— o,"  admitted  Curly.  "  But  what's 
the  difference,  so  long  ez  I  know  they're  all  good 
to  eat?" 

"  Plainly,  a  d d  Philistine,"  said  Battersleigh 

again,  striking  a  match  for  his  pipe.  "  But  I'm  not 
sure  but  he  had  you  there,  Ned,  me  boy." 

"  I'll  show  you,"  said  Franklin  eagerly.  "  Here 
it  is  on  the  hide.  The  hump  came  to  here.  Here 
was  the  knee  joint — you  can  see  by  the  whirl  in 
the  muscles  as  plainly  as  you  could  by  the  curl  in 
the  hair  there — you  can  see  it  under  a  wolf's  leg, 
the  same  way;  the  hair  follows  the  lines  of  the 
muscles,  you  know.  Wait,  I  could  almost  make 
you  a  dummy  out  of  the  clay.  Now,  look  here " 

"  You're  a  funny  sort  o'  a  feller,  Cap,"  said 
Curly,  "  but  if  you're  goin'  to  tan  that  hide  you'd 
better  finish  peggin'  it  out,  an'  git  to  work  on  it." 


CHAPTER   XIII 

PIE  AND   ETHICS 

ONE  morning  Battersleigh  was  at  work  at  his 
little  table,  engaged,  as  he  later  explained,  upon  the 
composition  of  a  letter  to  the  London  Times,  de- 
scriptive of  the  Agrarian  Situation  in  the  United 
States  of  America,  when  he  was  interrupted  by  a 
knock  at  his  door. 

"  Come  in,  come  in,  Ned,  me  boy/'  he  ex- 
claimed, as  he  threw  open  the  door  and  recognised 
his  visitor.  "  What's  the  news  this  mornin'  ?  " 

"  News  ? "  said  Franklin  gaily,  holding  his 
hands  behind  his  back.  "  I've  news  that  you  can't 
guess — good  news." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  they've  moved  the 
land  office  into  Ellisville,  do  you,  Ned?" 

"  Oh,  no,  better  than  that." 

"  You've  not  discovered  gold  on  your  quarter 
section,  perchance  ?  " 

"  Guess  again — it's  better  than  that." 

"  I'll  give  it  up.  But  leave  me  a  look  at  your 
hands." 

"  Yes,"  said  Franklin,  "  I'll  give  you  a  look,  and 
124 


PIE  AND  ETHICS  125 

one  more  guess."  He  held  up  a  small  bag  before 
Battersleigh's  face. 

"It's  not  potatoes,  Ned?"  said  Battersleigh  in 
an  awed  tone  of  voice.  Franklin  laughed. 

"  No ;  better  than  that,"  he  said. 

"Ned,"  said  Battersleigh,  "do  ye  mind  if  I 
have  a  bit  smell  of  that  bag  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  said  Franklin,  "  you  may  have  a 
smell,  if  you'll  promise  to  keep  your  hands  off." 

Battersleigh  approached  his  face  to  the  bag 
and  snuffed  at  it  once,  twice,  thrice,  as  though  his 
senses  needed  confirmation.  He  straightened  up 
and  looked  Franklin  in  the  face. 

"  Ned,"  said  he,  his  voice  sinking  almost  to  a 
whisper,  "  it's — it's  apples !  " 

"Right,"  said  Franklin.  "And  isn't  that 
news?" 

"  The  best  that  could  be,  and  the  hardest  to  be- 
lieve," said  Battersleigh.  "  Where'd  you  get  thim, 
and  how  ?  " 

"  By  diplomacy,"  said  Franklin.  "  Morrison, 
one  of  the  transit  men  of  the  engineers,  was  home 
in  Missouri  for  a  visit,  and  yesterday  he  came  back 
and  brought  a  sack  of  apples  with  him.  He  was 
so  careless  that  he  let  the  secret  out,  and  in  less 
than  half  an  hour  he  had  lost  two  thirds  of  his  sack 
of  apples — the  boys  wheedled  them  out  of  him,  or 
stole  them.  At  last  he  put  the  bag,  with  what  was 
left  of  the  apples,  in  the  safe  at  the  hotel,  and  left 


126     THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

orders  that  no  one  should  have  even  a  look  at  them. 
I  went  out  and  sent  a  man  in  to  tell  the  clerk  that 
he  was  wanted  at  the  depot,  and  while  he  was  away 
I  looted  the  safe — it  wasn't  locked — and  ran  for  it. 
It  was  legitimate,  wasn't  it?  I  gave  Sam  one  big 
red  apple,  for  I  knew  he  would  rather  have  it,  to 
give  to  his  Nora,  the  waiter  girl,  than  the  best  horse 
and  saddle  on  the  range.  The  rest — behold  them ! 
Tell  me,  do  you  know  how  to  make  a  pie  ?  " 

"  Ned,"  said  Battersleigh,  looking  at  him  with 
an  injured  air,  "  do  you  suppose  I've  campaigned 
all  me  life  and  not  learned  the  simplest  form  of 
cookin'  ?  Pie  ?  Why,  man,  I'll  lay  you  a  half  sec- 
tion of  land  to  a  saddle  blanket  I'll  make  ye  the  best 
pie  that  ever  ye  set  eye  upon  in  all  your  life.  Pie, 
indeed,  is  it?" 

"Well,"  said  Franklin,  "you  take  some  risks, 
but  we'll  chance  it.  Go  ahead.  We'll  just  save  out 
two  or  three  apples  for  immediate  consumption,  and 
not  put  all  our  eggs  in  one  basket." 

"Wisely  spoken,  me  boy,"  said  Battersleigh. 
"Ye're  a  thrue  conservative.  But  now,  just  ye 
watch  Batty  while  he  goes  to  work." 

Battersleigh  busied  himself  about  the  little  box 
which  made  his  cupboard,  and  soon  had  out  what 
he  called  his  "  ingraydeyints." 

"  Of  course,  yeVe  to  take  a  little  flour,"  he  said, 
"  that's  for  the  osseous  structure,  so  to  speak.  Ye've 
to  add  a  little  grease  of  some  sort,  lard  or  butter,  an' 


PIE  AND  ETHICS  127 

we've  nayther;  the  bacon  fat'll  do,  methinks.  Of 
course,  there's  the  bakin'  powder.  Fer  I've  always 
noticed  that  when  ye  take  flour  ye  take  also  bakin' 
powder.  Salt?  No,  I'm  sure  there's  no  salt  goes 
in  at  all ;  that's  against  reason,  an'  ye'll  notice  that 
the  principles  of  philosophy  go  into  all  the  ways  of 
life.  And,  lastly,  makin',  as  I  may  say,  the  roundin' 
out  of  the  muscular  and  adipose  tissue  of  the  cray- 
ture,  as  the  sowl  of  the  pie  we  must  have  the  apples. 
It's  a  sin  to  waste  'em  peelin' ;  but  I  think  they  used 
to  peel  'em,  too.  And  ye've  to  put  in  sugar,  at  laste 
a  couple  o'  spoons  full.  Now  observe.  I  roll  out 
this  dough — it's  odd-actin'  stuff,  but  it's  mere  idio- 
syncrashy  on  its  part — I  roll  this  out  with  a  bottle, 
flat  and  fine ;  and  I  put  into  this  pan,  here,  ye'll  see. 
Then  in  goes  the  intayrior  contints,  cut  in  pieces, 
ye'll  see.  Now,  thin,  over  the  top  of  the  whole  I 
sprid  this  thin  blanket  of  dough,  thus.  And  see  me 
thrim  off  the  edges  about  the  tin  with  me  knife. 
And  now  I  dint  in  the  shircumference  with  me 
thumb,  the  same  as  July  Trelawney  did  in  the  Ould 
Tinth.  And  there  ye  are,  done,  me  pie,  an'  may 
God  have  mercy  on  your  sowl ! — Ned,  build  up  the 
fire." 

They  sat  at  the  side  of  the  little  stove  somewhat 
anxiously  waiting  for  the  result  of  Battersleigh's 
labours.  Every  once  in  a  while  Battersleigh 
opened  the  oven  door  and  peered  in.  "  She  isn't 
brownin'  just  to  suit  me,  Ned,"  he  said,  "  but  that's 


128     THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

the  fault  o'  the  chimney."  Franklin  opined  that 
this  anxiety  boded  no  certainty  of  genius,  but  kept 
silent.  "  I'm  wonderin'  if  it's  right  about  that  bak- 
in'  powder  ? "  said  Battersleigh.  "  Is  it  too  late 
now,  do  ye  think  ?  " 

"  This  isn't  my  pie,  Battersleigh,"  said  Franklin, 
"  but  if  anything  has  gone  wrong  with  those  apples 
it'll  take  more  than  a  little  diplomacy  to  get  you  out 
of  the  trouble." 

As  they  sat  for  a  moment  silent  there  came  the 
sound  of  approaching  hoof-beats,  and  presently  the 
cracking  and  popping  of  the  feet  of  a  galloping 
horse  fell  into  a  duller  crunch  on  the  hard  ground 
before  the  door,  and  a  loud  voice  called  out, 
"  Whoa-hope,  Bronch !  Hello,  in  the  house !  " 

"  Come  in,  Curly,"  cried  Battersleigh.  "  Come 
in.  We've  business  of  importhance  this  mornin'." 

Curly  opened  the  door  a  moment  later,  peering 
in  cautiously,  the  sunshine  casting  a  rude  outline 
upon  the  floor,  and  his  figure  to  those  within  show- 
ing silhouetted  against  the  background  of  light,  be- 
leggined,  befringed,  and  begloved  after  the  fashion 
of  his  craft. 

"  How !  fellers,"  he  said,  as  he  stooped  to  enter 
at  the  low  door.  "  How  is  the  world  usin'  you  all 
this  bright  and  happy  mornin'  ?  " 

"  Pretty  well,  me  friend,"  said  Battersleigh,  his 
eyes  on  the  stove,  importantly.  "  Sit  ye  down." 

Curly  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  under 


PIE  AND   ETHICS 


I29 


whose  blanket  the  newspapers  still  rattled  to  the 
touch.  "  Seems  like  you  all  mighty  busy  this 
mornin',"  said  he. 

"  Yes/'  said  Franklin,  "  we've  got  business  on 
hand  now.  You  can't  guess  what  we're  cooking." 

"No;  what?" 

"  Pie." 

"Go 'long!" 

"  Yes,  sir,  pie,"  said  Franklin  firmly. 

Curly  leaned  back  on  the  bed  upon  his  elbow, 
respectful  but  very  incredulous. 

"  Our  cook  made  a  pie,  onct,"  said  he,  to  show 
himself  also  a  man  of  worldly  experience.  "  That 
was  down  on  the  Cimarron,  'bout  four  years  ago. 
We  et  it.  I  have  et  worse  pie  'n  that,  an'  I  have  et 
better.  But  I  never  did  git  a  chance  to  eat  all  the 
pie  I  wanted,  not  in  my  whole  life.  Was  you  sayin' 
I'm  in  on  this  here  pie  ?  " 

"  Certainly  you  are.  You  wait.  It'll  be  done 
now  pretty  soon,"  said  Franklin. 

"  If  ye  can  poke  a  straw  into  thim,  they're 
done,"  said  Battersleigh  oracularly.  "  Curly,  hand 
me  the  broom." 

Curly  passed  over  the  broom,  and  the  two,  with 
anxiety  not  unmixed  with  cynicism,  watched  Bat- 
tersleigh as  he  made  several  ineffectual  attempts  to 
penetrate  the  armour  of  the  pie. 

"  Stop  lookin'  at  me  like  a  brace  o'  evil-minded 

hyenies,"  protested  Battersleigh.     "  Ye'd  make  the 
10 


130     THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

devil  himself  nervous,  a-reghardin'  one  so  like  a 
object  o'  suspicion.  Mind  ye,  I'm  goin'  to  take  it 
out.  There's  nothin'  at  all  whativver  in  that  ijee 
of  stickin'  it  with  a  straw.  Moreover,  these  straws 
is  shameful." 

The  others  watched  him  eagerly  as  he  removed 
the  hot  tin  from  the  oven  and  set  it  upon  the  bare 
table. 

"  I'm  thinkin'  it  looks  a  bit  dumpish  midships, 
Ned,"  said  Battersleigh  dubiously.  "But  there's 
one  thing  shure,  ye'll  find  all  the  apples  in  it,  for  I've 
watched  the  stove  door  meself,  and  there's  been  no 
possibility  fer  them  to  escape.  And  of  course  ye'll 
not  forgit  that  the  apples  is  the  main  thing  in  an 
apple  pie.  The  crust  is  merely  a  secondary  mat- 
ter." Battersleigh  said  this  in  an  airy  manner 
which  disarmed  criticism.  Curly  drew  his  clasp 
knife  from  his  pocket  and  cut  into  the  portion  as- 
signed to  him.  Franklin  was  reserved,  but  Curly 
attained  enthusiasm  at  the  second  bite. 

"  Rile  Irish,"  said  he,  "  I'm  not  so  sure  you're 
such  a  h — 1  of  a  military  man,  but  as  a  cook  you're 
a  burnin'  success.  You  kin  sign  with  our  outfit  to- 
morrer  if  you  want  to.  Man,  if  I  could  bake  pie 
like  that,  I'd  break  the  Bar  O  outfit  before  the  sea- 
son was  over!  An'  if  I  ever  could  git  all  the  pie 
I  wanted  to  eat,  I  wouldn't  care  how  quick  after 
that  I  fanned  out.  This  here  is  the  real  thing. 
That  pie  that  our  cook  made  on  the  Cimarron — 


PIE  AND  ETHICS  131 

why,  it  was  made  of  dried  apples.  Why  didn't  you 
tell  me  you  had  real  apples  ?  " 

The  pie,  startling  as  it  was  in  some  regards,  did 
not  long  survive  the  determined  assault  made  upon 
it.  Curly  wiped  his  knife  on  the  leg  of  his  "  chaps  " 
and  his  mouth  on  the  back  of  his  hand. 

"  But  say,  fellers,"  he  said,  "  I  plumb  forgot 
what  I  come  over  here  for.  They's  goin'  to  be  a 
dance  over  to  town,  an*  I  come  to  tell  you  about 
it.  O'  course  you'll  come." 

"What  sort  of  a  dance  can  it  be,  man?"  said 
Battersleigh. 

"  Why,  a  plumb  dandy  dance ;  reg'lar  high-step- 
pin'  outfit;  mucha  bailie;  best  thing  ever  was  in 
this  settlement." 

"  I'm  curious  to  know  where  the  ladies  will 
come  from,"  said  Franklin. 

"  Don't  you  never  worry,"  rejoined  Curly. 
"  They's  plenty  o'  women-folks.  Why,  there's  the 
section  boss,  his  wife — you  know  her — she  does  the 
washin'  for  most  everybody.  There's  Nora,  Sam's 
girl,  the  head  waiter ;  an'  Mary,  the  red-headed  girl ; 
an'  Kitty,  the  littlest  waiter  girl ;  an'  the  new  gro- 
cery man's  wife;  an*  Hank  Peterson's  wife,  from 
down  to  his  ranch.  Oh,  there'll  be  plenty  o'  ladies, 
don't  you  never  doubt.  Why,  say,  Sam,  he  told  me, 
last  time  he  went  down  to  Plum  Centre,  he  was  goin' 
to  ask  Major  Buford  an'  his  wife,  an'  the  gal  that's 
stayin'  with  them — tall  gal,  fine  looker — why,  Sam, 


132     THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

he  said  he  would  ast  them,  an'  maybe  they'd  come 
up  to  the  dance — who  knows?  Sam,  he  says  that 
gal  ain't  no  common  sort — whole  outfit's  a  puzzler 
to  him,  he  says,  Sam  does." 

"  And  when  does  this  all  happen,  Curly,  boy  ?  " 
asked  Battersleigh. 

"  Why,  night  after  to-morrer  night,  to  the  big 
stone  hotel.  They're  goin'  to  clean  out  the  dinin'- 
room  for  us.  Three  niggers,  two  fiddlers,  an'  a 
'cordion — oh,  we'll  have  music  all  right!  You'll 
be  over,  of  course  ?  " 

"  That  we  will,  me  boy,"  responded  Batters- 
leigh. "  It's  mesilf  will  inthrojuce  Captain  Frank- 
lin to  his  first  haythin  ball.  Our  life  on  the  claim's 
elevatin',  for  it  leaves  time  for  thought,  but  it  is  a 
bit  slow  at  times.  An'  will  we  come?  Man,  we'll 
be  the  first." 

"  Well,  then,  so  long,  fellers,"  said  Curly.  "  I 
got  to  be  movin'  along  a  little.  See  you  at  the 
dance,  sure." 

"  Now,  as  to  a  ball,  Battersleigh,"  said  Franklin, 
argumentatively,  when  they  were  alone,  "  how  can 
I  go?  I've  not  the  first  decent  thing  to  wear  to 
such  a  place." 

"  Tut,  tut !  "  said  Battersleigh.  "  There  speaks 
the  coxcombry  of  youth.  I  make  no  doubt  ye'd  be 
the  best-dressed  man  there  if  ye'd  go  as  ye  stand 
now.  But  what  about  Batty?  On  me  honour, 
Ned,  I've  never  been  so  low  in  kit  as  I  am  this  sea- 


PIE  AND  ETHICS  133 

son  here,  not  since  I  was  lance  sergeant  in  the 
Tinth.  You're  able  to  pull  out  your  blue  uniform, 
I  know,  an'  b'gad !  the  uniform  of  an  officer  is  full 
dress  the  worrld  over!  Look  at  Batty,  half  mufti, 
and  his  allowance  a  bit  late,  me  boy.  But  does 
Batty  despair?  By  no  means.  Tis  at  times  like 
this  that  gaynius  rises  to  the  occasion." 

Franklin  grinned  amiably.  "  Thank  you  for 
the  suggestion  about  the  uniform,  at  least,"  he  said. 
"  Now,  if  we  can  fix  you  up  as  well." 

Battersleigh  came  and  stood  before  him,  waving 
a  long  forefinger. 

"  Listen  to  me,  Ned,"  he  began,  "  an'  I'll  lay 
down  to  ye  a  few  of  the  fundamental  rules  of  con- 
duct and  appar'l. 

"  A  gintleman  never  lies ;  a  gintleman  never  uses 
unseemly  haste;  a  gintleman  is  always  ready  for 
love  and  ready  for  war — for,  Ned,  me  boy,  without 
love  and  war  we'd  miss  the  only  two  joys  of  life. 
Thereto,  a  gintleman  must  shoot,  fence,  ride,  dance, 
and  do  anny  of  'em  like  a  gintleman.  For  outward- 
ly appar'l,  seein'  him  clane  within,  me  boy,  a  gintle- 
man should  make  the  best  of  what  he  finds  about 
him.  I  have  slept  sweet  in  turban  or  burnous  in 
me  time.  Dress  is  nothing  that  we  may  always  con- 
trol. But  if  ye  found  yeself  a  bit  low  in  kit,  as  Batty 
is  this  day,  what  would  ye  say,  Ned,  me  boy,  was 
the  first  salient — what  is  the  first  essintial  in  the 
dress  of  a  gintleman,  me  boy  ?  " 


134     THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

"  Linen,"  said  Franklin,  "  or  is  it  gloves  ?  " 

"  Ned,"  said  Battersleigh  solemnly,  laying  a 
hand  upon  his  shoulder,  "  ye're  the  dearest  boy  in 
the  world.  Ye're  fit  to  be  lance  sergeant  yersilf  in 
the  ould  Tinth  Rigiment.  Right  ye  are,  quite  right. 
White,  white,  me  boy,  is  the  first  colour  of  a  gintle- 
man!  White,  to  show  the  integrity  of  his  honour 
and  the  claneness  of  his  merit  roll.  Shure,  he  must 
have  his  weapons,  and  his  horse — for  a  gintleman 
always  rides — and  his  hat  and  gloves  are  matter  of 
course.  But,  first  of  all,  essintial  to  him  as  the  soap 
and  crash,  is  white,  sir — yes,  white!  A  touch  of 
white  at  neck  and  wrist  anny  gintleman  must  show 
who  presints  himself  at  a  ball." 

"But,  now,  how?" 

Battersleigh  pointed  a  long  finger  at  Franklin, 
then  turned  it  upon  himself,  tapping  with  import 
upon  his  forehead.  "  Look  at  me,  at  Batty,"  he 
said.  "  Here  is  where  gaynius  comes  in,  me  friend. 
I  may  be  far  from  the  home  that  bore  me — God 
prosper  them  that  knows  it  now ! — and  I  may  be  a 
bit  behind  with  me  allowance;  but  never  yet  was 
Batty  without  the  arms  and  the  appar'l  of  a  gintle- 
man. Ned,  come  with  me." 

Grasping  his  companion  by  the  arm,  Batters- 
leigh stepped  outside  the  house,  and  strode  off  with 
long  steps  across  the  prairie.  "  Come,"  he  said,  as 
one  who  commanded  alike  secrecy  and  despatch. 
Humouring  him,  Franklin  followed  for  a  quarter  of 


PIE  AND   ETHICS  135 

a  mile.  Then,  bending  his  gaze  in  the  direction  of 
the  march,  he  saw  afar,  fluttering  like  a  signal  of  dis- 
tress in  the  engulfing  sea  about,  a  little  whipping 
flag  of  white,  which  was  upheld  by  the  gaunt  hand 
of  a  ragged  sage  bush.  This,  as  he  drew  near,  he 
discovered  to  be  a  portion  of  an  old  flour  sack, 
washed  clean  and  left  bleaching  in  the  sun  and  wind 
until  it  had  assumed  a  colour  a  shade  more  pure 
than  its  original  dinginess. 

Battersleigh  made  dramatic  approach.  "There !" 
said  he,  pointing  with  triumphant  dignity  to  the 
fluttering  rag. 

"  Yes,  I  see,"  said  Franklin,  "  but  what  do  you 
want  of  this  piece  of  sack  ?  " 

"  Sack ! "  cried  Battersleigh,  offended.  " '  Sack ! ' 
say  you,  but  I  say, '  White ! '  Look  ye,  the  history 
of  a  man  is  something  sacred.  '  Sack ! "  say  you, 
but  I  say,  '  White ! '  A  strip  of  this  at  me  neck 
and  at  me  wrist;  me  hat,  an*  me  sabre  and  me 
ridin'  whip — I  r-ride  up  to  the  dure.  I  dismount. 
I  throw  me  rein  to  the  man.  I  inter  the  hall  and 
place  me  hat  and  gloves  in  order  as  they  should  be. 
I  appear — Battersleigh,  a  gintleman,  appears,  stand- 
in'  in  the  dure,  the  eyes  of  all  upon  him.  I  bow, 
salutin',  standin'  there,  alone,  short  on  allowance, 
but  nate  and  with  me  own  silf-respect.  Batters- 
leigh, a  bit  low  in  kit  and  in  allowance,  with 
white  at  neck  and  wrist,  bows,  and  he  says,  '  Ladies 
and  gintlemen,  Battersleigh  is  here ! '  " 


CHAPTER   XIV 

THE   FIRST   BALL  AT   ELLISVILLE 

THE  wife  of  the  section  boss  sat  in  conscious 
dignity,  as  became  a  leader  of  society.  She  was 
gowned  in  purple,  newly  starched,  and  upon  her 
bosom  rose  and  fell  the  cross  that  Jerry  gave  her 
long  ago.  Below  her  in  order  of  station  came 
Nora,  the  head  waiter,  and  the  red-headed  waiter 
girl,  and  the  littlest  waiter  girl,  and  the  wife  of  the 
new  grocery  man.  These  sat  silent  and  unhappy 
at  one  part  of  the  long  row  of  chairs  that  lined  the 
side  of  the  hall.  Opposite  to  them,  equally  silent 
and  equally  unhappy,  sat  a  little  row  of  men.  Jerry, 
the  section  boss,  made  no  claim  to  social  distinction. 
He  was  a  simple,  plain,  hard-working  man,  whose 
main  concern  was  in  his  work,  and  whose  great 
pride  was  in  the  social  triumphs  of  his  wife.  Jerry 
was  short  and  broad  and  sturdy,  and  his  face  was 
very,  very  red.  Near  to  Jerry  sat  the  new  grocery 
man,  and  Curly  the  cowboy,  and  Del  Hickman,  an- 
other cowboy,  and  several  other  cowboys,  and  Sam, 
the  stage-driver.  They  were  all  silent  and  very  mis- 
erable. The  lights  of  the  big  hanging  kerosene 
136 


THE  FIRST  BALL  AT  ELLISVILLE          137 

lamps  flickered  and  cast  great  shadows,  showing 
the  women  all  with  heads  very  high  and  backs 
straight  and  stiff,  the  men  in  various  attitudes  of 
jellyfish,  with  heads  hanging  and  feet  screwed  under 
their  chairs  in  search  of  moral  support. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  the  ball.  These  were 
the  first  arrivals.  At  the  head  of  the  hall,  far  off, 
sat  three  musicians,  negroes  alleged  to  play  violins 
and  an  accordion,  and  by  that  merit  raised  to  a  bad 
eminence.  Gloomy,  haughty,  superior,  these  gazed 
sternly  out  before  them,  ready  for  the  worst.  Now 
and  then  they  leaned  over  the  one  toward  another, 
and  ventured  some  grim,  ghastly  remark.  Once 
the  leader,  an  old  and  gray-haired  man,  was  heard 
to  utter,  inadvertently  above  his  breath,  the  omi- 
nous expression,  "  Yass,  indeed !  "  All  in  all,  the 
situation  was  bodeful  in  the  extreme.  There  was 
no  speech  other  than  that  above  noted. 

After  a  vast  hiatus  the  door  at  the  main  entrance 
was  pulled  cautiously  open,  a  little  at  a  time.  Evi- 
dently some  one  was  looking  in.  The  conscious- 
ness of  this  caused  two  or  three  men  to  shufHe  their 
feet  a  trifle  upon  the  floor,  as  though  they  expected 
the  death  march  soon  to  begin.  The  littlest  waiter 
girl,  unable  to  stand  the  nervous  strain,  tittered 
audibly,  which  caused  Nora,  the  head  waiter,  to 
glare  at  her  through  her  glasses.  At  length  the 
door  opened,  and  two  figures  entered  affrightedly, 
those  of  Hank  Peterson,  a  neighbouring  rancher, 


138     THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY  HOUSE 

and  his  wife.  Hank  was  dressed  in  the  costume  of 
the  time,  and  the  high  heels  of  his  boots  tapped  un- 
certainly as  he  made  his  way  over  the  wide  hollow- 
sounding  floor,  his  feet  wabbling  and  crossing  in  his 
trepidation.  None  the  less,  having  forthwith  de- 
coyed to  the  row  of  men  sitting  silent  against  the 
wall,  he  duly  reached  that  harbour  and  sank  down, 
wiping  his  face  and  passing  his  hand  across  his 
mouth  uncertainly.  His  wife  was  a  tall,  angular 
woman,  whose  garb  was  like  that  of  most  of  the 
other  women — cotton  print.  Yet  her  hair  was 
combed  to  the  point  of  fatality,  and  at  her  neck  she 
had  a  collarette  of  what  might  have  been  lace,  but 
was  not.  Conscious  of  the  inspection  of  all  there 
assembled,  Mrs.  Peterson's  conduct  was  different 
from  that  of  her  spouse.  With  head  held  very  high 
and  a  glance  of  scorn,  as  of  one  hurling  back  some 
uttered  word  of  obloquy,  she  marched  down  the 
hall  to  the  side  occupied  by  the  ladies;  nay,  even 
passed  the  full  line  as  in  daring  review,  and  seated 
herself  at  the  farther  end,  with  head  upright,  as 
ready  for  instant  sally  of  offence. 

The  door  opened  again  and  yet  again.  Two  or 
three  engineers,  a  rodman,  a  leveller,  and  an  axeman 
came  in,  near  behind  them  more  cattlemen.  From 
among  the  guests  of  the  hotel  several  came,  and 
presently  the  clerk  of  the  hotel  himself.  The  line  of 
men  grew  steadily,  but  the  body  upon  the  opposite 
side  of  the  room  remained  constant,  immobile,  and 


THE  FIRST   BALL  AT   ELLISVILLE 

unchanged.  At  these  devoted  beings  there  glared 
many  eyes  from  across  the  room.  More  and  more 
frequent  came  the  scrape  of  a  foot  along  the  floor, 
or  the  brief  cough  of  perturbation.  One  or  two 
very  daring  young  men  leaned  over  and  made  some 
remark  in  privacy,  behind  the  back  of  the  hand,  this 
followed  by  a  nudge  and  a  knowing  look,  perhaps 
even  by  a  snicker,  the  latter  quickly  suppressed. 
Little  by  little  these  bursts  of  courage  had  their 
effect.  Whispers  became  spasmodic,  indeed  even 
frequent. 

"  Say,  Curly,"  whispered  Del  Hickman  hoarsely 
to  his  neighbour,  "  ef  somethin'  don't  turn  loose 
right  soon  I'm  due  to  die  right  here.  I'm  thirsti- 
er'n  if  this  here  floor  was  the  Staked  Plains." 

"  Same  here,"  said  Curly  in  a  muttered  under- 
tone. "  But  I  reckon  we're  here  till  the  round-up's 
made.  When  she  do  set  loose,  you  watch  me  rope 
that  littlest  waiter  girl.  She  taken  my  eye,  fer 
shore." 

"  That's  all  right,  friend,"  said  Del,  apparently 
relieved.  "  I  didn't  know  but  you'd  drew  to  the 
red-headed  waiter  girl.  I  sorter  'lowed  I'd  drift 
over  in  thataway,  when  she  starts  up." 

Sam,  the  driver,  was  sitting  rapt,  staring  mutely 
across  the  great  gulf  fixed  between  him  and  Nora, 
the  head  waiter.  Nora,  by  reason  of  her  authority 
in  position,  was  entitled  to  wear  a  costume  of  white, 
whereas  the  waiters  of  lower  rank  were  obliged  by 


I40     THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

house  rules  to  attire  themselves  in  dark  skirts.  To 
Sam's  eyes,  therefore,  Nora,  arrayed  in  this  dis- 
tinguishing garb,  appeared  at  once  the  more  fair 
and  the  more  unapproachable.  As  she  sat,  the 
light  glinting  upon  her  glasses,  her  chin  well  up- 
held, her  whole  attitude  austere  and  commanding, 
Sam  felt  his  courage  sink  lower  and  lower,  until  he 
became  abject  and  abased.  Fascinated  none  the 
less,  he  gazed,  until  Curly  poked  him  sharply  and 
remarked : 

"  Which  'un  you  goin*  to  make  a  break  fer, 
Sam?" 

"  I — I  d-d-don't  know,"  said  Sam,  startled  and 
disturbed. 

"  Reckon  you'd  like  to  mingle  some  with  Nory, 
hey?" 

"  W-w-w-well — "  began  Sam  defensively. 

"  But  she  don't  see  it  that  way.  Not  in  a  hun- 
dred. Why,  she'll  be  dancin'  with  Cap  Franklin,  or 
Batty,  er  some  folks  that's  more  in  her  line,  you  see. 
Why  in  h — 1  don't  you  pick  out  somebody  more 
in  yer  own  bunch,  like  ?  "  Curly  was  meaning  to  be 
only  judicial,  but  he  was  cruel.  Sam  collapsed  and 
sat  speechless.  He  had  long  felt  that  his  ambition 
was  sheer  presumption. 

The  hours  grew  older.  At  the  head  of  the  hall 
the  musicians  manifested  more  signs  of  their  inex- 
orable purpose.  A  sad,  protesting  squeal  came 
from  the  accordion.  The  violins  moaned,  but  were 


THE   FIRST   BALL  AT   ELLISVILLE  I4I 

held  firm.  The  worst  might  be  precipitated  at  any 
moment. 

But  again  there  was  a  transfer  of  the  general  at- 
tention toward  the  upper  end  of  the  hall.  The  door 
once  more  opened,  and  there  appeared  a  little  group 
of  three  persons,  on  whom  there  was  fixed  a  regard 
so  steadfast  and  so  silent  that  it  might  well  have 
been  seen  that  they  were  strangers  to  all  present. 
Indeed,  there  was  but  one  sound  audible  in  the  sud- 
den silence  which  fell  as  these  three  entered  the 
room.  Sam,  the  driver,  scraped  one  foot  unwit- 
tingly upon  the  floor  as  he  half  leaned  forward  and 
looked  eagerly  at  them  as  they  advanced. 

Of  the  three,  one  was  a  tall  and  slender  man, 
who  carried  himself  with  that  ease  which,  itself  un- 
conscious, causes  self-consciousness  in  those  still 
some  generations  back  of  it.  Upon  the  arm  of  this 
gentleman  was  a  lady,  also  tall,  thin,  pale,  with  wide, 
dark  eyes,  which  now  opened  with  surprise  that 
was  more  than  half  shock.  Lastly,  with  head  up 
and  eyes  also  wide,  like  those  of  a  stag  which  sees 
some  new  thing,  there  came  a  young  woman,  whose 
presence  was  such  as  had  never  yet  been  seen  in  the 
hotel  at  Ellisville.  Tall  as  the  older  lady  by  her 
side,  erect,  supple,  noble,  evidently  startled  but  not 
afraid,  there  was  that  about  this  girl  which  was  new 
to  Ellisville,  which  caused  the  eye  of  every  man  to 
fall  upon  her  and  the  head  of  every  woman  to  go 
up  a  degree  the  higher  in  scorn  and  disapprobation. 


142      THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

This  was  a  being  of  another  world.  There  was 
some  visitation  here.  Mortal  woman,  woman  of  the 
Plains,  never  yet  grew  like  this.  Nor  had  gowns 
like  these — soft,  clinging,  defining,  draping — ever 
occurred  in  history.  There  was  some  mistake. 
This  creature  had  fallen  here  by  error,  while  floating 
in  search  of  some  other  world. 

Astonished,  as  they  might  have  been  by  the 
spectacle  before  them  of  the  two  rows  of  separated 
sex,  all  of  whom  gazed  steadfastly  in  their  direction ; 
greeted  by  no  welcoming  hand,  ushered  to  no  con- 
venient seat,  these  three  faced  the  long,  half-lit 
room  in  the  full  sense  of  what  might  have  been 
called  an  awkward  situation.  Yet  they  did  not 
shuffle  or  cough,  or  talk  one  with  another,  or  smile 
in  anguish,  as  had  others  who  thus  faced  the  same 
ordeal.  Perhaps  the  older  lady  pressed  the  closer 
to  the  gentleman's  side,  while  the  younger  placed 
her  hand  upon  his  shoulder;  yet  the  three  walked 
slowly,  calmly,  deliberately  down  into  what  must 
have  been  one  of  the  most  singular  scenes  hitherto 
witnessed  in  their  lives.  The  man  did  not  forsake 
his  companions  to  join  the  row  of  unfortunates. 
As  they  reached  the  head  of  the  social  rank,  where 
sat  Mrs.  McDermott,  the  wife  of  the  section  boss 
and  arbiter  elegantiarum  for  all  Ellisville,  the  gen- 
tleman bowed  and  spoke  some  few  words,  though 
obviously  to  a  total  stranger — a  very  stiff  and  sus- 
picious stranger,  who  was  too  startled  to  reply. 


THE  FIRST  BALL  AT  ELLISVILLE  143 

The  ladies  bowed  to  the  wife  of  the  section  boss  and 
to  the  others  as  they  came  in  turn.  Then  the  three 
passed  on  a  few  seats  apart  from  and  beyond  the 
other  occupants  of  that  side  of  the  house,  thus  leav- 
ing a  break  in  the  ranks  which  caused  Mrs.  Mc- 
Dermott  a  distinct  sniff  and  made  the  red-headed 
girl  draw  up  in  pride.  The  newcomers  sat  near  to 
the  second  lamp  from  the  musicians'  stand,  and  in 
such  fashion  that  they  were  half  hid  in  the  deep 
shadows  cast  by  that  erratic  luminary. 

There  was  now  much  tension,  and  the  unhappi- 
ness  and  suspense  could  have  endured  but  little 
longer.  Again  the  accordion  protested  and  the  fid- 
dle wept.  The  cornet  uttered  a  faint  note  of  woe. 
Yet  once  more  there  was  a  pause  in  this  time  of  joy. 

Again  the  door  was  pushed  open,  not  timidly, 
but  flung  boldly  back.  There  stood  two  figures 
at  the  head  of  the  hall  and  in  the  place  of  greatest 
light.  Of  these,  one  was  tall  and  very  thin,  but  up- 
right as  a  shaft  of  pine.  Over  his  shoulder  hung 
a  cloak,  which  he  swept  aside  over  his  arm  with  a 
careless  and  free  gesture  of  unconcern.  He  was 
clad  in  dark  garments;  thus  much  might  be  said. 
His  face,  clean  shaven  but  for  the  long  and  pointed 
mustaches  and  goatee,  was  high  and  bold,  his 
gaze  confident  and  merry.  His  waistcoat  sat  high 
and  close.  At  wrist  and  neck  there  showed  a 
touch  of  white,  and  a  bit  of  white  appeared  pro- 
truding at  the  bosom  of  his  coat.  His  tread  was 


144     THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

supple  and  easy  as  that  of  a  boy  of  twenty.  "  Ned, 
me  boy,"  he  whispered  to  his  companion  as  they 
entered,  "  I'm  feelin'  fine  the  night ;  and  as  for  yer- 
self,  ye're  fit  for  the  court  o'  St.  James  at  a  diplo- 
mats' ball." 

Franklin,  indeed,  deserved  somewhat  of  the 
compliment.  He  was  of  that  rare  figure  of  man 
which  looks  well  whether  clad  for  the  gymnasium 
or  the  ball,  upon  which  clothing  does  not  merely 
hang,  but  which  fills  out  and  dignifies  the  apparel 
that  may  be  worn.  In  height  the  ex-captain  was 
just  below  the  six-foot  mark  which  so  often  means 
stature  but  not  strength,  and  he  carried  every  inch 
of  his  size  with  proportions  which  indicated  vigour 
and  activity.  He  walked  now  with  the  long,  easy 
hip-stride  of  the  man  whose  sides  and  back  are  not 
weak,  but  strong  and  hardened.  His  head,  well  set 
upon  the  neck,  was  carried  with  the  chin  uncon- 
sciously correct,  easily,  not  stiffly.  His  shoulders 
were  broad  enough  to  hang  nicely  over  the  hips, 
and  they  kept  still  the  setting-up  of  the  army  drill. 
Dressed  in  the  full  uniform  of  a  captain,  he  looked 
the  picture  of  the  young  army  officer  of  the  United 
States,  though  lacking  any  of  the  arrogance  which 
might  come  from  the  purely  military  life.  Simply, 
easily,  much  as  had  the  little  group  that  immediately 
preceded  himself  and  friend,  Franklin  passed  on  up 
into  the  hall,  between  the  batteries  which  lined 
the  walls. 


THE  FIRST   BALL  AT  ELLISVILLE          145 

Any  emergency  brings  forward  its  own  remedy. 
The  times  produce  the  man,  each  war  bringing 
forth  its  own  generals,  its  heroes,  its  solvers  of  great 
problems.  Thus  there  came  now  to  these  persons 
assembled,  deadlocked,  unguided,  unhappy,  who 
might  else  have  sat  forever  rooted  to  this  spot,  the 
man  who  was  to  save  them,  to  lead  them  forth  out 
of  their  wilderness  of  incertitude. 

None  had  chosen  Battersleigh  to  the  leadership. 
He  came  as  mere  guest,  invited  as  were  the  others. 
There  had  been  no  election  for  master  of  ceremo- 
nies, nor  had  Battersleigh  yet  had  time  to  fully  real- 
ize how  desperate  was  this  strait  in  which  these  folk 
had  fallen.  It  appeared  to  him  merely  that,  himself 
having  arrived,  there  was  naught  else  to  cause  de- 
lay. At  the  centre  of  the  room  he  stopped,  near  by 
the  head  of  the  stern  column  of  womanhood  which 
held  the  position  on  the  right  as  one  entered  the 
hall.  Here  Battersleigh  paused,  making  a  deep 
and  sweeping  bow,  and  uttered  the  first  open  speech 
which  had  been  heard  that  evening. 

"  Ladies  and  gintlemen,"  he  said  in  tones  easily 
distinguishable  at  all  parts  of  the  room,  "  I'm 
pleased  to  meet  ye  all  this  evenin'.  Perhaps  ye  all 
know  Battersleigh,  and  I  hope  ye'll  all  meet  me 
friend  Captain  Franklin,  at  me  side.  We  claim  the 
inthroduction  of  this  roof,  me  good  friends,  and  we 
welcome  everybody  to  the  first  dance  at  Ellisville. 
Ladies,  yer  very  dutiful  servant!  It's  well  ye're 


146     THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

lookin',  Mrs.  McDermott;  and  Nora,  gyurl,  sure 
ye're  charmin'  the  night.  Kittle,  darlin',  how  do  ye 
do?  Do  ye  remember  Captain  Franklin,  all  of  ye? 
Pipe  up,  ye  naygurs — that's  right.  Now,  thin,  all 
hands,  choose  yer  partners  fer  the  gr-rand  march. 
Mrs.  McDermott,  darlin',  we'll  lead  the  march,  sure, 
with  Jerry's  permission — how'll  he  help  himself,  I 
wonder,  if  the  lady  says  yis  ?  Thank  ye,  Mrs.  Mc- 
Dermott, and  me  arm — so." 

The  sheepish  figures  of  the  musicians  now 
leaned  together  for  a  moment.  The  violins  wailed 
in  sad  search  for  the  accord,  the  assistant  instru- 
ment less  tentative.  All  at  once  the  slack  shoul- 
ders straightened  up  firmly,  confidently,  and  then, 
their  feet  beating  in  unison  upon  the  floor,  their 
faces  set,  stern  and  relentless,  the  three  musicians 
fell  to  the  work  and  reeled  off  the  opening  bars. 

A  sigh  went  up  from  the  assembly.  There  was 
a  general  shuffling  of  shoes,  a  wide  rustling  of 
calico.  Feet  were  thrust  forward,  the  body  yet  un- 
able to  follow  them  in  the  wish  of  the  owner.  Then, 
slowly,  sadly,  as  though  going  to  his  doom,  Curly 
arose  from  out  the  long  line  of  the  unhappy  upon 
his  side  of  the  room.  He  crossed  the  intervening 
space,  his  limbs  below  the  knees  curiously  affected, 
jerking  his  feet  into  half  time  with  the  tune.  He 
bowed  so  low  before  the  littlest  waiter  girl  that  his 
neck  scarf  fell  forward  from  his  chest  and  hung  be- 
fore him  like  a  shield.  "  May  I  hev  the  honour,  Miss 


THE  FIRST  BALL  AT  ELLISVILLE 


147 


Kitty  ?  "  he  choked  out ;  and  as  the  littlest  waiter 
girl  rose  and  took  his  arm  with  a  vast  air  of  uncon- 
cern, Curly  drew  a  long  breath. 

In  his  seat  Sam  writhed,  but  could  not  rise. 
Nora  looked  straight  in  front.  It  was  Hank  Peter- 
son, who  led  her  forth,  and  who,  after  the  occasion 
was  over,  wished  he  had  not  done  so,  for  his  wife  sat 
till  the  last  upon  the  row.  Seeing  this  awful  thing 
happen,  seeing  the  hand  of  Nora  laid  upon  another's 
arm,  Sam  sat  up  as  one  deeply  smitten  with  a  hurt. 
Then,  silently,  unobserved  in  the  confusion,  he  stole 
away  from  the  fateful  scene  and  betook  himself  to 
his  stable,  where  he  fell  violently  to  currying  one  of 
the  horses. 

"  Oh,  kick ! "  he  exclaimed,  getting  speech  in 
these  surroundings.  "  Kick !  I  deserve  it.  Of 

all  the  low-down,  d n  cowards  that  ever  was 

borned  I  sure  am  the  worst!  But  the  gall  of  that 
feller  Peterson !  An*  him  a  merried  man !  " 

When  Sam  left  the  ballroom  there  remained  no 
person  who  was  able  to  claim  acquaintance  with  the 
little  group  who  now  sat  under  the  shadow  of  the 
swinging  lamp  at  the  lower  end  of  the  hall,  and 
farthest  from  the  door.  Sam  himself  might  have 
been  more  courteous  had  not  his  mental  perturba- 
tion been  so  great.  As  it  was,  the  "  grand  march  " 
was  over,  and  Battersleigh  was  again  walking  along 
the  lines  in  company  with  his  friend  Franklin,  be- 
fore either  could  have  been  said  to  have  noticed 


I48     THE  GIRL  AT   THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

fully  these  strangers,  whom  no  one  seemed  to  know, 
and  who  sat  quite  apart  and  'unengaged.  Bat- 
tersleigh,  master  of  ceremonies  by  natural  right, 
and  comfortable  gentleman  at  heart,  spied  out  these 
three,  and  needed  but  a  glance  to  satisfy  himself  of 
their  identity.  Folk  were  few  in  that  country,  and 
Sam  had  often  been  very  explicit  in  his  descriptions. 

"  Sir,"  said  Battersleigh,  approaching  and  bow- 
ing as  he  addressed  the  stranger,  "  I  shall  make  bold 
to  introjuce  meself — Battersleigh  of  Ellisville,  sir,  at 
your  service.  If  I  am  not  mistaken,  you  will  be 
from  below,  toward  the  next  town.  I  bid  ye  a  very 
good  welcome,  and  we  shall  all  hope  to  see  ye  often, 
sir.  We're  none  too  many  here  yet,  and  a  gintle- 
man  and  his  family  are  always  welcome  among  gin- 
tlemen.  Allow  me,  sir,  to  presint  me  friend  Cap- 
tain Franklin,  Captain  Ned  Franklin  of  the  — th* 
Illinois  in  the  late  unplisantness. — Ned,  me  boy, 
Colonel — ye'll  pardon  me  not  knowin'  the  name  ?  " 

"  My  name  is  Buford,  sir,"  said  the  other  as  he 
rose.  "  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  gentlemen,  Colo- 
nel Battersleigh,  Captain  Franklin.  I  was  so  un- 
lucky as  to  be  of  the  Kentucky  troops,  sir,  in  the 
same  unpleasantness.  I  want  to  introduce  my  wife, 
gentlemen,  and  my  niece,  Miss  Beauchamp." 

Franklin  really  lost  a  part  of  what  the  speaker 
was  saying.  He  was  gazing  at  this  form  half  hidden 
in  the  shadows,  a  figure  with  hands  drooping,  with 
face  upturned  and  just  caught  barely  by  one  vagrant 


THE  FIRST  BALL  AT  ELLISVILLE          149 

ray  of  light  which  left  the  massed  shades  piled 
strongly  about  the  heavy  hair.  There  came  upon 
him  at  that  moment,  as  with  a  flood-tide  of  memory, 
all  the  vague  longing,  the  restlessness,  the  incerti- 
tude of  life  which  had  harried  him  before  he  had 
come  to  this  far  land,  whose  swift  activity  had 
helped  him  to  forget.  Yet  even  here  he  had  been 
unsettled,  unhappy.  He  had  missed,  he  had  lacked 
— he  knew  not  what.  Sometimes  there  had  come 
vague  dreams,  recurrent,  often  of  one  figure,  which 
he  could  not  hold  in  his  consciousness  long  enough 
to  trace  to  any  definite  experience  or  association — a 
lady  of  dreams,  against  whom  he  strove  and  whom 
he  sought  to  banish.  Whom  he  had  banished! 
Whom  he  had  forgotten!  Whom  he  had  never 
known !  Who  had  ever  been  in  his  life  a  vague,  de- 
licious mystery! 

The  young  woman  rose,  and  stood  out  a  pace  or 
two  from  the  shadows.  Her  hand  rested  upon  the 
arm  of  the  elder  lady.  She  turned  her  face  toward 
Franklin.  He  felt  her  gaze  take  in  the  uniform  of 
blue,  felt  the  stroke  of  mental  dislike  for  the  uni- 
form— a  dislike  which  he  knew  existed,  but  which 
he  could  not  fathom.  He  saw  the  girl  turn  more 
fully  toward  him,  saw  upon  her  face  a  querying 
wonder,  like  that  which  he  had  known  in  his  own 
dreams!  With  a  strange,  half-shivering  gesture 
the  girl  advanced  half  a  step  and  laid  her  head 
almost  upon  the  shoulder  of  the  elder  woman, 


150     THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

standing  thus  for  one  moment,  the  arms  of  the  two 
unconsciously  entwined,  as  is  sometimes  the  way 
with  women.  Franklin  approached  rudeness  as  he 
looked  at  this  attitude  of  the  two,  still  puzzling,  still 
seeking  to  solve  this  troubling  problem  of  the  past. 

There  came  a  shift  in  the  music.  The  air  swept 
from  the  merry  tune  into  the  minor  from  which  the 
negro  is  never  musically  free.  Then  in  a  flash 
Franklin  saw  it  all.  He  saw  the  picture.  His 
heart  stopped ! 

This  music,  it  was  the  wail  of  trumpets !  These 
steps,  ordered,  measured,  were  those  of  marching 
men.  These  sounds,  high,  commingling,  they 
were  the  voices  of  a  day  gone  swiftly  by.  These 
two,  this  one — this  picture — it  was  not  here,  but 
upon  the  field  of  wheat  and  flowers  that  he  saw  it 
now  again — that  picture  of  grief  so  infinitely  sad. 

Franklin  saw,  and  as  he  gazed,  eager,  half  ad- 
vancing, indecision  and  irresolution  dropped  from 
him  forever.  Resolved  from  out  the  shadows, 
wherein  it  had  never  in  his  most  intimate  self- 
searching  taken  any  actual  form,  he  saw  the  image 
of  that  unformulated  dream  which  had  haunted  his 
sub-consciousness  so  long,  and  which  was  now  to 
haunt  him  openly  and  forever. 


CHAPTER   XV 

ANOTHER  DAY 

THE  morning  after  the  first  official  ball  in  Ellis- 
ville  dawned  upon  another  world. 

The  occupants  of  the  wagons  which  trailed  off 
across  the  prairies,  the  horsemen  who  followed 
them,  the  citizens  who  adjourned  and  went  as  usual 
to  the  Cottage — all  these  departed  with  the  more  or 
less  recognised  feeling  that  there  had  happened  a 
vague  something  which  had  given  Ellisville  a  new 
dignity,  which  had  attached  to  her  a  new  signifi- 
cance. Really  this  was  Magna  Charta.  All  those 
who,  tired  and  sleepy,  yet  cheerful  with  the  vitality 
of  beef  and  air,  were  going  home  upon  the  morning 
following  the  ball,  knew  in  their  souls  that  some- 
thing had  been  done.  Each  might  have  told  you 
in  his  way  that  a  new  web  of  human  interests  and 
human  antagonisms  was  now  laid  out  upon  the 
loom.  Rapid  enough  was  to  be  the  weaving,  and 
Ellisville  was  early  enough  to  become  acquainted 
with  the  joys  and  sorrows,  the  strivings  and  the  fail- 
ures, the  happinesses  and  bitternesses  of  organized 
humanity. 

151 


152 


THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 


There  are  those  who  sneer  at  the  communities  of 
the  West,  and  who  classify  all  things  rural  as  crude 
and  unworthy,  entitled  only  to  tolerance,  if  they  be 
spared  contempt.  They  are  but  provincials  them- 
selves who  are  guilty  of  such  attitude,  and  they  pro- 
claim only  an  ignorance  which  itself  is  not  entitled 
to  the  dignity  of  being  called  intolerance.  The  city 
is  no  better  than  the  town,  the  town  is  no  better 
than  the  country,  and  indeed  one  is  but  little  differ- 
ent from  the  other.  Everywhere  the  problems  are 
the  same.  Everywhere  it  is  Life  which  is  to  be 
seen,  which  is  to  be  lived,  which  is  to  be  endured, 
to  be  enjoyed.  Perhaps  the  men  and  women  of 
Ellisville  did  not  phrase  it  thus,  but  surely  they  felt 
the  strong  current  which  warmed  their  veins,  which 
gave  them  hope  and  belief  and  self-trust,  worth  full 
as  much,  let  us  say,  as  the  planted  and  watered  life 
of  those  who  sometimes  live  on  the  earnings  of 
those  who  have  died  before  them,  or  on  the  labour 
of  those  who  are  enslaved  to  them. 

Ellisville,  after  the  first  ball,  was  by  all  the 
rules  of  the  Plains  admittedly  a  town.  A  sun  had 
set,  and  a  sun  had  arisen.  It  was  another  day. 

In  the  mind  of  Edward  Franklin,  when  he  was 
but  a  boy,  there  came  often  problems  upon  which 
he  pondered  with  all  the  melancholy  seriousness  of 
youth,  and  as  he  grew  to  young  manhood  he  found 
always  more  problems  to  engage  his  thoughts,  to 
challenge  his  imagination.  They  told  the  boy  that 


ANOTHER   DAY  153 

this  earth  was  but  a  part  of  a  grand  scheme,  a  dot 
among  the  myriad  stars.  He  was  not  satisfied,  but 
asked  always  where  was  the  Edge.  No  recurrent 
quotient  would  do  for  him;  he  demanded  that  the 
figures  be  conclusive.  They  told  him  of  the  posi- 
tive and  negative  poles,  and  he  wished  to  see  the 
adjoining  lines  of  the  two  hemispheres  of  force. 
Carrying  his  questionings  into  youth  and  manhood, 
they  told  him — men  and  women  told  him,  the  birds 
told  him,  the  flowers  told  him — that  there  were 
marrying  and  giving  in  marriage,  that  there  was 
Love.  He  studied  upon  this  and  looked  about  him, 
discovering  a  world  indeed  divided  into  two  hemi- 
spheres, always  about  to  be  joined  since  ever  time 
began.  But  it  seemed  to  him  that  this  union  must 
never  be  that  of  mere  chance.  There  could  be  but 
one  way  right  and  fit  for  the  meeting  of  the  two 
halves  of  life.  He  looked  about  him  in  the  little 
village  where  he  was  brought  up,  and  found  that  the 
men  had  married  the  women  who  were  there  for 
them  to  marry.  They  had  never  sailed  across  seas, 
had  never  searched  the  stars,  had  never  questioned 
their  own  souls,  asking,  "  Is  this,  then,  the  Other 
of  me  ?  "  Seeing  that  this  was  the  way  of  human 
beings,  he  was  ashamed.  It  aroused  him  to  hear  of 
this  man  or  that  who,  having  attained  a  certain  num- 
ber of  cattle  or  a  given  amount  of  household  goods, 
conceived  himself  now  ready  to  marry,  and  who 

therefore  made  court  to  the  neighbour's  daughter, 
ii 


154     THE  GIRL  AT  THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

and  who  forthwith  did  marry  her.  To  his  dream- 
er's heart  it  seemed  that  there  should  be  search,  that 
there  should  be  a  sign,  so  that  it  should  be  sure  that 
the  moment  had  come,  that  the  Other  had  been 
found.  With  some  men  this  delusion  lasts  very  late. 
With  some  women  it  endures  forever.  For  these 
there  may  be,  after  all,  another  world  somewhere 
in  the  recurrent  quotient  which  runs  indefinitely 
out  into  the  stars. 

With  these  vague  philosophizings,  these  morbid 
self-queryings,  there  came  into  conflict  the  sterner 
and  more  practical  side  of  Franklin's  nature,  itself 
imperious  and  positive  in  its  demands.  Thus  he 
found  himself,  in  his  rude  surroundings  on  the 
Plains,  a  man  still  unsettled  and  restless,  ambitious 
for  success,  but  most  of  all  ambitious  with  that 
deadly  inner  ambition  to  stand  for  his  own  equation, 
to  be  himself,  to  reach  his  own  standards ;  that  am- 
bition which  sends  so  many  broken  hearts  into 
graves  whose  headstones  tell  no  history.  Franklin 
wondered  deliberately  what  it  must  be  to  succeed, 
what  it  must  be  to  achieve.  And  he  wondered  de- 
liberately what  it  must  mean  to  love,  to  find  by 
good  fortune  or  by  just  deserts,  voyaging  some- 
where in  the  weltering  sea  of  life,  in  the  weltering 
seas  of  all  these  unmoved  stars,  that  other  being 
which  was  to  mean  that  he  had  found  himself.  To 
the  searcher  who  seeks  thus  starkly,  to  the  dreamer 
who  has  not  yielded,  but  who  has  deserved  his 


ANOTHER  DAY 


155 


dream,  there  can  be  no  mistaking  when  the  image 
comes. 

Therefore  to  Edward  Franklin  the  tawdry  hotel 
parlour  on  the  morning  after  the  ball  at  Ellisville 
was  no  mere  four-square  habitation,  but  a  chamber 
of  the  stars.  The  dingy  chairs  and  sofas  were  to 
him  articles  of  joy  and  beauty.  The  curtains  at  the 
windows,  cracked  and  seamed,  made  to  him  but  a 
map  of  the  many  devious  happinesses  which  life 
should  thenceforth  show.  The  noises  of  the  street 
were  but  music,  the  voices  from  the  rooms  below 
were  speech  of  another  happy  world.  Before  him, 
radiant,  was  that  which  he  had  vaguely  sought. 
Not  for  him  to  marry  merely  the  neighbour's 
daughter!  This  other  half  of  himself,  with  feet 
running  far  to  find  the  missing  friend,  had  sought 
him  out  through  all  the  years,  through  all  the 
miles,  through  all  the  spheres!  This  was  fate, 
and  at  this  thought  his  heart  glowed,  his  eyes  shone, 
his  very  stature  seemed  to  increase.  He  wist  not  of 
Nature  and  her  ways  of  attraction.  He  only  knew 
that  here  was  that  Other  whose  hand,  pathetically 
sought,  he  had  hitherto  missed  in  the  darkness  of 
the  foregone  days.  Now,  thought  he,  it  was  all 
happily  concluded.  The  quotient  was  no  indefinite 
one ;  it  had  an  end.  It  ended  here,  upon  the  edge 
of  the  infinite  which  he  had  sought ;  upon  the  pin- 
nacle of  that  universe  of  which  he  had  learned ;  here, 
in  this  brilliant  chamber  of  delight,  this  irradiant 


156     THE  GIRL  AT  THE   HALFWAY  HOUSE 

abode,  this  noble  hall  bedecked  with  gems  and  silks 
and  stars  and  all  the  warp  and  woof  of  his  many, 
many  days  of  dreams ! 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Buford  had  for  the  time  excused 
themselves  by  reason  of  Mrs.  Buford's  weariness, 
and  after  the  easy  ways  of  that  time  and  place  the 
young  people  found  themselves  alone.  Thus  it  was 
that  Mary  Ellen,  with  a  temporary  feeling  of  help- 
lessness, found  herself  face  to  face  with  the  very 
man  whom  she  at  that  time  cared  least  to  see. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

ANOTHER  HOUR 

"  BUT  it  seems  as  though  I  had  always  known 
you/*  said  Franklin,  turning  again  toward  the  tall 
figure  at  the  window.  There  was  no  reply  to  this, 
neither  was  there  wavering  in  the  attitude  of  the 
head  whose  glossy  back  was  turned  to  him  at  that 
moment. 

"  It  was  like  some  forgotten  strain  of  music ! " 
he  blundered  on,  feeling  how  hopeless,  how  dis- 
tinctly absurd  was  all  his  speech.  "  I  surely  must 
always  have  known  you,  somewhere !  "  His  voice 
took  on  a  plaintive  assertiveness  which  in  another 
he  would  have  derided  and  have  recognised  as  an 
admission  of  defeat. 

Mary  Ellen  still  gazed  out  of  the  window.  In 
her  mind  there  was  a  scene  strangely  different  from 
this  which  she  beheld.  She  recalled  the  green  for- 
ests and  the  yellow  farms  of  Louisburg,  the  dron- 
ing bees,  the  broken  flowers  and  all  the  details 
of  that  sodden,  stricken  field.  With  a  shudder 
there  came  over  her  a  swift  resentment  at  meeting 
here,  near  at  hand,  one  who  had  had  a  share  in  that 
scene  of  desolation. 


158     THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

Franklin  felt  keenly  enough  that  he  was  at  dis- 
advantage, but  no  man  may  know  what  there  is  in 
the  heart  of  a  girl.  To  Mary  Ellen  there  seemed  to 
be  three  ways  open.  She  might  address  this  man 
bitterly,  or  haughtily,  or  humorously.  The  latter 
course  might  have  been  most  deadly  of  all,  had  it 
not  been  tempered  with  a  certain  chivalrousness 
which  abode  in  Mary  Ellen's  heart.  After  all, 
thought  she,  here  was  a  man  who  was  one  of  their 
few  acquaintances  in  this  strange,  wild  country.  It 
might  be  that  he  was  not  an  ill  sort  of  man  at  heart, 
and  by  all  means  he  was  less  impossible  of  manner 
than  any  other  she  had  seen  here.  She  had  heard 
that  the  men  of  a  womanless  country  were  some- 
times suddenly  disconcerted  by  the  appearance  of 
womankind  upon  their  horizon.  There  was  a  cer- 
tain quality  about  this  man  which,  after  all,  left  him 
distinctly  within  the  classification  of  gentleman. 
Moreover,  it  would  be  an  ill  thing  for  her  to  leave 
a  sore  heart  on  the  first  day  of  her  acquaintance  in 
this  town,  with  which  her  fortunes  were  now  appar- 
ently to  be  so  intimately  connected. 

Mary  Ellen  turned  at  length  and  seated  herself 
near  the  window.  The  light  of  which  many  women 
are  afraid,  the  cross-light  of  double  windows  on  the 
morning  after  a  night  of  dancing,  had  no  terrors  for 
her.  Her  eye  was  clear,  her  skin  fresh,  her  shoul- 
ders undrooping.  Franklin  from  his  seat  opposite 
gazed  eagerly  at  this  glorious  young  being.  From 


ANOTHER  HOUR  159 

his  standpoint  there  were  but  few  preliminaries  to 
be  carried  on.  This  was  the  design,  the  scheme. 
This  was  what  life  had  had  in  store  for  him,  and 
why  should  he  hesitate  to  enter  into  possession? 
Why  should  he  delay  to  speak  that  which  was 
foremost  in  his  soul,  which  assuredly  at  that  very 
moment  must  be  the  foremost  concern  in  all  the 
interlocking  universe  of  worlds?  After  his  fashion 
he  had  gone  straight.  He  could  not  understand 
the  sickening  thought  that  he  did  not  arrive,  that 
his  assertion  did  not  convince,  that  his  desire  did 
not  impinge. 

Mary  Ellen  turned  toward  him  slowly  at  length, 
and  so  far  from  seeming  serious,  her  features  bore 
the  traces  of  a  smile.  "  Do  you  know,"  said  she, 
"  I  think  I  heard  of  a  stage-driver — wasn't  it  some- 
where out  West — who  was  taking  a  school-teacher 
from  the  railroad  to  the  schoolhouse — and  he — well, 
that  is  to  say " 

"  He  said  things " 

"  Yes,  that  is  it.  He  said  things,  you  know. 
Now,  he  had  never  seen  the  school-teacher  before." 

"  Yes,  I  have  heard  of  that  story,"  said  Franklin, 
smiling  as  he  recalled  the  somewhat  different  story 
of  Sam  and  the  waiter  girl.  "  I  don't  just  recollect 
all  about  it." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  the  stage-driver  said  some- 
thing— er,  like — maybe  he  said  it  was  '  like  for- 
gotten music '  to  him." 


!6o     THE  GIRL  AT   THE  HALFWAY   HOUSE 

Franklin  coloured.  "  The  story  was  an  ab- 
surdity, like  many  others  about  the  West,"  he  said. 
"  But/*  he  brightened,  "  the  stage-driver  had  never 
seen  the  school-teacher  before." 

"  I  don't  quite  understand,"  said  Mary  Ellen 
coldly.  "  In  my  country  it  was  not  customary  for 
gentlemen  to  tell  ladies  when  they  met  for  the  first 
time  that  it  was  *  like  a  strain  of  forgotten  music  ' — 
not  the  first  time."  And  in  spite  of  herself  she  now 
laughed  freely,  feeling  her  feminine  advantage  and 
somewhat  exulting  in  spite  of  herself  to  see  that 
even  here  upon  the  frontier  there  was  opportunity 
for  the  employment  of  woman's  ancient  craft. 

"  Music  never  forgotten,  then !  "  said  Franklin 
impetuously.  "  This  is  at  least  not  the  first  time  we 
have  met."  In  any  ordinary  duel  of  small  talk  this 
had  not  been  so  bad  an  attack,  yet  now  the  results 
were  something  which  neither  could  have  foreseen. 
To  the  mind  of  the  girl  the  words  were  shocking, 
rude,  brutal.  They  brought  up  again  the  whole 
scene  of  the  battlefield.  They  recalled  a  music 
which  was  indeed  not  forgotten — the  music  of 
that  procession  which  walked  across  the  heart  of 
Louisburg  on  that  far-off  fatal  day.  She  shud- 
dered, and  upon  her  face  there  fell  the  shadow 
of  an  habitual  sadness. 

"You  have  spoken  of  this  before,  Captain 
Franklin,"  said  she,  "  and  if  what  you  say  is  true, 
and  if  indeed  you  did  see  me — there — at  that  place 


ANOTHER   HOUR  l6l 

— I  can  see  no  significance  in  that,  except  the  lesson 
that  the  world  is  a  very  small  one.  I  have  no  recol- 
lection of  meeting  you.  But,  Captain  Franklin, 
had  we  ever  really  met,  and  if  you  really  cared  to 
bring  up  some  pleasant  thought  about  the  meeting, 
you  surely  would  never  recall  the  fact  that  you  met 
me  upon  that  day !  " 

Franklin  felt  his  heart  stop.  He  looked  aside, 
his  face  paling  as  the  even  tones  went  on : 

"  That  was  the  day  of  all  my  life  the  saddest,  the 
most  terrible.  I  have  been  trying  ever  since  then 
to  forget  it.  I  dare  not  think  of  it.  It  was  the  day 
when — when  my  life  ended — when  I  lost  every- 
thing, everything  on  earth  I  had." 

Franklin  turned  in  mute  protest,  but  she  con- 
tinued : 

"  Because  of  that  day,"  said  she  bitterly,  "  to 
which  you  referred  as  though  it  were  a  curious  or 
pleasant  thought,  since  you  say  you  were  there  at 
that  time — because  of  that  very  day  I  was  left  adrift 
in  the  world,  every  hope  and  every  comfort  gone. 
Because  of  Louisburg — why,  this — Ellisville!  This 
is  the  result  of  that  day!  And  you  refer  to  it 
with  eagerness." 

Poor  Franklin  groaned  at  this,  but  thought  of 
no  right  words  to  say  until  ten  hours  afterward, 
which  is  mostly  the  human  way.  "  I  know — I 
could  have  known,"  he  blundered — "  I  should  not 
be  so  rude  as  to  suppose  that — ah,  it  was  only  you 

12 


1 62      THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY   HOUSE 

that  I  remembered!  The  war  is  past  and  gone. 
The  world,  as  you  say,  is  very  small.  It  was  only 
that  I  was  glad " 

"  Ah,  sir,"  said  Mary  Ellen,  and  her  voice  now 
held  a  plaintiveness  which  was  the  stronger  from 
the  droop  of  the  tenderly  curving  lips — "  ah,  sir,  but 
you  must  remember !  To  lose  your  relatives,  even 
in  a  war  for  right  and  principle — and  the  South  was 
right !  "  (this  with  a  flash  of  the  eye  late  pensive) — 
"  that  is  hard  enough.  But  for  me  it  was  not  one 
thing  or  another ;  it  was  the  sum  of  a  thousand  mis- 
fortunes. I  wonder  that  I  am  alive.  It  seems  to 
me  as  though  I  had  been  in  a  dream  for  a  long, 
long  time.  It  is  no  wonder  that  those  of  us  left 
alive  went  away,  anywhere,  as  far  as  we  could,  that 
we  gave  up  our  country — that  we  came  even  here !  " 
She  waved  a  hand  at  the  brown  monotony  visible 
through  the  window. 

"  You  blame  me  as  though  it  were  personal ! " 
broke  in  Franklin ;  but  she  ignored  him. 

"  We,  our  family,"  she  went  on,  "  had  lived 
there  for  a  dozen  generations.  You  say  the  world 
is  small.  It  is  indeed  too  small  for  a  family  again 
to  take  root  which  has  been  torn  up  as  ours  has 
been.  My  father,  my  mother,  my  two  brothers, 
nearly  every  relative  I  had,  killed  in  the  war  or  by 
the  war — our  home  destroyed — our  property  taken 
by  first  one  army  and  then  the  other — you  should 
not  wonder  if  I  am  bitter !  It  was  the  field  of  Louis- 


ANOTHER   HOUR  163 

burg  which  cost  me  everything.  I  lost  all — all — 
on  that  day  which  you  wish  me  to  remember. 
You  wish  me  to  remember  that  you  saw  me  then, 
that  I  perhaps  saw  you.  Why,  sir,  if  you  wished 
me  to  hate  you,  you  could  do  no  better — and  I  do 
not  wish  to  hate  any  one.  I  wish  to  have  as  many 
friends  as  we  may,  here  in  this  new  country ;  but  for 
remembering — why,  I  can  remember  nothing  else, 
day  or  night,  but  Louisburg !  " 

"  You  stood  so,"  said  Franklin,  doggedly  and 
fatuously,  "  just  as  you  did  last  night.  You  were 
leaning  on  the  arm  of  your  mother " 

Mary  Ellen's  eyes  dilated.  "  It  was  not  my 
mother,"  said  she. 

"A  friend?"  said  Franklin,  feelingly  as  he 
might. 

"The  mother  of  a  friend,"  said  Mary  Ellen, 
straightening  up  and  speaking  with  effort.  And  all 
the  meaning  of  her  words  struck  Franklin  fully  as 
though  a  dart  had  sunk  home  in  his  bosom. 

"We  were  seeking  for  my  friend,  her  son/' 
said  Mary  Ellen.  "  I— Captain  Franklin,  I  know 
of  no  reason  why  we  should  speak  of  such  things  at 
all,  but  it  was  my — I  was  to  have  been  married  to 
the  man  for  whom  we  were  seeking,  and  whom  we 
found !  That  is  what  Louisburg  means  to  me.  It 
means  this  frontier  town,  a  new,  rude  life  for  us. 
It  means  meeting  you  all  here — as  we  are  glad  and 
proud  to  do,  sir— but  first  of  all  it  means— that !  " 


164     THE  GIRL  AT  THE   HALFWAY  HOUSE 

Franklin  bowed  his  head  between  his  hands  and 
half  groaned  over  the  pain  which  he  had  cost. 
Then  slowly  and  crushingly  his  own  hurt  came 
home  to  him.  Every  fibre  of  his  being,  which 
had  been  exultingly  crying  out  in  triumph  at  the 
finding  of  this  missing  friend — every  fibre  so  keenly 
strung — now  snapped  and  sprang  back  at  rag  ends. 
In  his  brain  he  could  feel  the  parting  one  by  one 
of  the  strings  which  but  now  sang  in  unison.  Dis- 
cord, darkness,  dismay,  sat  on  all  the  world. 

The  leisurely  foot  of  Buford  sounded  on  the 
stair,  and  he  knocked  gaily  on  the  door  jam  as 
he  entered. 

"  Well,  niece,"  said  he,  "  Mrs.  Buford  thinks  we 
ought  to  be  starting  back  for  home  right  soon 
now." 

Mary  Ellen  rose  and  bowed  to  Franklin  as  she 
passed  to  leave  the  room;  but  perhaps  neither  she 
nor  Franklin  was  fully  conscious  of  the  leave-taking. 
Buford  saw  nothing  out  of  the  way,  but  turned  and 
held  out  his  hand.  "  By  the  way,  Captain  Frank- 
lin," said  he,  "  I'm  mighty  glad  to  meet  you,  sir — 
mighty  glad.  We  shall  want  you  to  come  down 
and  see  us  often.  It  isn't  very  far — only  about 
twenty-five  miles  south.  They  call  our  place  the 
Halfway  Ranch,  and  it's  not  a  bad  name,  for  it's 
only  about  halfway  as  good  a  place  as  you  and  I 
have  always  been  used  to;  but  it's  ours,  and  you 
will  be  welcome  there.  We'll  be  up  here  some- 


ANOTHER   HOUR  165 

times,  and  you  must  come  down.  We  shall  de- 
pend on  seeing  you  now  and  then." 

"  I  trust  we  shall  be  friends,"  mumbled 
Franklin. 

"  Friends  ?  "  said  Buford  cheerily,  the  smiling 
wrinkles  of  his  own  thin  face  signifying  his  sincer- 
ity ;  "  why,  man,  here  is  a  place  where  one  needs 
friends,  and  where  he  can  have  friends.  There  is 
time  enough  and  room  enough,  and — well,  you'll 
come,  won't  you  ? "  And  Franklin,  dazed  and 
missing  all  the  light  which  had  recently  made  glad 
the  earth,  was  vaguely  conscious  that  he  had  prom- 
ised to  visit  the  home  of  the  girl  who  had  certainly 
given  him  no  invitation  to  come  further  into  her 
life,  but  for  whose  word  of  welcome  he  knew  that 
he  should  always  long. 


BOOK    III 
THE  DAY  OF   THE  CATTLE 


CHAPTER   XVII 

ELLISVILLE  THE  RED 

GOURDLIKE,  Ellisville  grew  up  in  a  night.  It 
was  not,  and  lo!  it  was.  Many  smokes  arose,  not 
moving  from  crest  to  crest  of  the  hills  as  in  the  past, 
when  savage  bands  of  men  signalled  the  one  to  the 
other,  but  rising  steadily,  in  combined  volume,  a 
beacon  of  civilization  set  far  out  in  the  plains,  assur- 
ing, beckoning.  Silently,  steadily,  the  people  came 
to  this  rallying  place,  dropping  in  from  every  corner 
of  the  stars.  The  long  street  spun  out  still  longer 
its  string  of  toylike  wooden  houses.  It  broke  and 
doubled  back  upon  itself,  giving  Ellisville  title  to 
unique  distinction  among  all  the  cities  of  the  plains, 
which  rarely  boasted  more  than  a  single  street. 
The  big  hotel  at  the  depot  sheltered  a  colony  of  rest- 
less and  ambitious  life.  From  the  East  there  came 
a  minister  with  his  wife,  both  fresh  from  college. 
They  remained  a  week.  The  Cottage  Hotel  had 
long  since  lost  its  key,  and  day  and  night  there  went 
166 


ELLISVILLE  THE   RED  167 

on  vast  revelry  among  the  men  of  the  wild,  wide 
West,  then  seeing  for  the  first  time  what  seemed  to 
them  the  joy  and  glory  of  life.  Little  parties  of 
men  continually  came  up  from  the  South,  in  search 
of  opportunity  to  sell  their  cattle.  Little  parties  of 
men  came  from  the  East,  seeking  to  buy  cattle  and 
land.  They  met  at  the  Cottage,  and  made  merry  in 
large  fashion,  seeing  that  this  was  a  large  land,  and 
new,  and  unrestrained. 

Land  and  cattle,  cattle  and  land.  These  themes 
were  upon  the  lips  of  all,  and  in  those  days  were 
topics  of  peace  and  harmony.  The  cattleman 
still  stood  for  the  nomadic  and  untrammelled  West, 
the  West  of  wild  and  glorious  tradition.  The  man 
who  sought  for  land  was  not  yet  recognised  as  the 
homesteader,  the  man  of  anchored  craft,  of  settled 
convictions,  of  adventures  ended.  For  one  brief, 
glorious  season  the  nomad  and  the  home  dweller 
shook  hands  in  amity,  not  pausing  to  consider 
wherein  their  interests  might  differ.  For  both,  this 
was  the  West,  the  free,  unbounded,  illimitable,  ex- 
haustless  West — Homeric,  Titanic,  scornful  of 
metes  and  bounds,  having  no  scale  of  little  things. 

Here  and  there  small,  low  houses,  built  of  the 
soil  and  clinging  grimly  to  the  soil,  made  indistinct 
dots  upon  the  wide  gray  plains.  Small  corrals 
raised  their  ragged  arms.  Each  man  claimed  his 
herd  of  kine.  Slowly,  swinging  up  from  the  far 
Southwest,  whose  settlement,  slower  and  still  more 


168     THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

crude,  had  gone  on  scores  of  years  ago  when 
the  Spaniards  and  the  horse  Indians  of  the  lower 
plains  were  finally  beaten  back  from  the  rancherias, 
there  came  on  the  great  herds  of  the  gaunt,  broad- 
horned  cattle,  footsore  and  slow  and  weary  with 
their  march  of  more  than  a  thousand  miles.  These 
vast  herds  deployed  in  turn  about  the  town  of  Ellis- 
ville,  the  Mecca  for  which  they  had  made  this 
unprecedented  pilgrimage.  They  trampled  down 
every  incipient  field,  and  spread  abroad  over  all  the 
grazing  lands,  until  every  township  held  its  thou- 
sands, crowded  by  the  new  thousands  continually 
coming  on.  Long  train  loads  of  these  cattle,  wild 
and  fierce,  fresh  from  the  chutes  into  which  they 
were  driven  after  their  march  across  the  untracked 
empire  of  the  range,  rolled  eastward  day  after  day. 
Herd  after  herd  pressed  still  farther  north,  past 
Ellisville,  going  on  wearily  another  thousand  miles, 
to  found  the  Ellisvilles  of  the  upper  range,  to  take 
the  place  of  the  buffalo  driven  from  the  ancient 
feeding  grounds.  Scattered  into  hundreds  and 
scores  and  tens,  the  local  market  of  the  Ellisville 
settlers  took  its  share  also  of  the  cheap  cattle  from 
the  South,  and  sent  them  out  over  the  cheap  lands. 

It  was  indeed  the  beginning  of  things.  Fortune 
was  there  for  any  man.  The  town  became  a  load- 
stone for  the  restless  population  ever  crowding  out 
upon  the  uttermost  frontier.  The  men  from  the 
farther  East  dropped  their  waistcoats  and  their  nar- 


ELLISVILLE   THE   RED  169 

row  hats  at  Ellisville.  All  the  world  went  under 
wide  felt  and  bore  a  jingling  spur.  Every  man  was 
armed.  The  pitch  of  life  was  high.  It  was  worth 
death  to  live  a  year  in  such  a  land !  The  pettinesses 
fell  away  from  mankind.  The  horizon  of  life  was 
wide.  There  was  no  time  for  small  exactness.  A 
newspaper,  so  called,  cost  a  quarter  of  a  dollar. 
The  postmaster  gave  no  change  when  one  bought  a 
postage  stamp.  A  shave  was  worth  a  quarter  of  a 
dollar,  or  a  half,  or  a  dollar,  as  that  might  be.  The 
price  of  a  single  drink  was  never  established,  since 
that  was  something  never  called  for.  For  a  cow- 
man to  spend  one  hundred  dollars  at  the  Cottage 
bar,  and  to  lose  ten  thousand  dollars  at  cards  later 
in  the  same  evening,  was  a  feat  not  phenomenal. 
There  were  more  cattle,  south  in  Texas.  The 
range-men,  acquainted  with  danger  and  risk,  loving 
excitement,  balked  at  no  hazard.  Knowing  no  set- 
tled way  of  life,  ignorant  of  a  roof,  careless  of  the 
ways  of  other  lands,  this  town  was  a  toy  to  them,  a 
jest,  just  as  all  life,  homeless,  womanless,  had  been 
a  jest.  By  day  and  by  night,  ceaseless,  crude,  bar- 
baric, there  went  on  a  continuous  carousal,  which 
would  have  been  joyless  backed  by  a  vitality  less 
superb,  an  experience  less  young.  Money  and  life 
— these  two  things  we  guard  most  sacredly  in  the 
older  societies,  the  first  most  jealously,  the  latter 
with  a  lesser  care.  In  Ellisville  these  were  the  com- 
modities in  least  esteem.  The  philosophy  of  that 


i/o 


THE  GIRL  AT   THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 


land  was  either  more  ignorant  or  more  profound 
than  ours.  Over  all  the  world,  unaided  by  a  sensa- 
tional press,  and  as  yet  without  even  that  non-resi- 
dent literature  which  was  later  to  discover  the  Ellis- 
villes  after  the  Ellisvilles  were  gone,  there  spread 
the  fame  of  Ellisville  the  Red,  the  lustful,  the  un- 
speakable. Here  was  a  riot  of  animal  intensity  of 
life,  a  mutiny  of  physical  man,  the  last  outbreak  of 
the  innate  savagery  of  primitive  man  against  the 
day  of  shackles  and  subjugation.  The  men  of  that 
rude  day  lived  vehemently.  They  died,  and  they 
escaped.  The  earth  is  trampled  over  their  bold 
hearts,  and  they  have  gone  back  into  the  earth,  the 
air,  the  sky,  and  the  wild  flowers.  Over  their  graves 
tread  now  those  who  bow  the  neck  and  bear  the 
burden  and  feed  the  wheels,  and  know  the  despair  of 
that  civilization  which  grinds  hope  from  out  the 
heart.  The  one  and  the  other  came,  departed,  and 
will  depart.  The  one  and  the  other,  the  bond  and 
the  free,  the  untamed  and  the  broken,  were  pawns 
in  the  iron  game  of  destiny. 

The  transient  population  of  Ellisville,  the  cattle 
sellers  and  cattle  buyers  and  land  seekers,  outnum- 
bered three  to  one  the  resident  or  permanent  pop- 
ulation, which  catered  to  this  floating  trade, 
and  which  supplied  its  commercial  or  professional 
wants.  The  resident  one  third  was  the  nucleus  of 
the  real  Ellisville  that  was  to  be.  The  social  com- 
pact was  still  in  embryo.  Life  was  very  simple. 


ELLISVILLE  THE   RED  171 

It  was  the  day  of  the  individual,  the  day  before 
the  law. 

With  this  rude  setting  there  was  to  be  enacted 
a  rapid  drama  of  material  progress  such  as  the 
world  has  never  elsewhere  seen;  but  first  there 
must  be  played  the  wild  prologue  of  the  West,  never 
at  any  time  to  have  a  more  lurid  scene  than  here  at 
the  Halfway  House  of  a  continent,  at  the  intersec- 
tion of  the  grand  transcontinental  trails,  the  bloody 
angle  of  the  plains.  Eight  men  in  a  day,  a  score  in 
a  week,  met  death  by  violence.  The  street  in  the 
cemetery  doubled  before  that  of  the  town.  There 
were  more  graves  than  houses.  This  superbly 
wasteful  day,  how  could  it  presage  that  which  was 
to  come?  In  this  riotous  army  of  invasion,  who 
could  have  foreseen  the  population  which  was  to 
follow,  adventurous  yet  tenacious,  resolved  first 
upon  independence,  and  next  upon  knowledge,  and 
then  upon  the  fruits  of  knowledge?  Nay,  perhaps, 
after  all,  the  prescience  of  this  coming  time  lay  over 
Ellisville  the  Red,  .so  that  it  roared  the  more  tem- 
pestuously on  through  its  brief,  brazen  day. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

STILL  A   REBEL 

IN  the  swift  current  of  humanity  then  streaming 
up  and  down  the  cattle  range,  the  reputation  of  the 
Halfway  House  was  carried  far  and  near;  and  for 
fifty  miles  east  and  west,  for  five  hundred  miles 
north  and  south,  the  beauty  of  the  girl  at  the  Half- 
way House  was  matter  of  general  story.  This  was 
a  new  sort  of  being,  this  stranger  from  another  land, 
and  when  applied  to  her,  all  the  standards  of  the 
time  fell  short  or  wide.  About  her  there  grew  a 
saga  of  the  cow  range,  and  she  was  spoken  of  with 
awe  from  the  Brazos  to  the  Blue.  Many  a  rude 
cowman  made  long  pilgrimage  to  verify  rumours  he 
had  heard  of  the  personal  beauty,  the  personal 
sweetness  of  nature,  the  personal  kindness  of  heart, 
and  yet  the  personal  reserve  and  dignity  of  this  new 
goddess,  whose  like  was  not  to  be  found  in  all  the 
wide  realms  of  the  range.  Such  sceptics  came  in 
doubt,  but  they  remained  silent  and  departed  rev- 
erent. Wider  and  wider  grew  her  circle  of  devoted 
friends — wild  and  desperate  men  who  rarely  knew  a 
roof  and  whose  hands  stayed  at  no  deed,  but  who 
172 


STILL  A  REBEL  173 

knew  with  unerring  accuracy  the  value  of  a  real 
woman. 

For  each  of  these  rude,  silent,  awkward  range 
riders,  who  stammered  in  all  speech  except  to  men 
or  horses,  and  who  stumbled  in  all  locomotion  but 
that  of  the  saddle,  Mary  Ellen  had  a  kind  spot  in  her 
soul,  never  ceasing  to  wonder  as  she  did  at  the  cus- 
toms and  traditions  of  their  life.  Pinky  Smith,  laid 
up  at  the  Halfway  House  with  a  broken  leg  (with 
which  he  had  come  in  the  saddle  for  over  fifty 
miles),  was  blither  in  bed  than  he  had  ever  been  at 
table.  Ike  Wallace,  down  with  a  fever  at  the  same 
place,  got  reeling  into  saddle  at  dawn  of  a  cheerless 
day,  and  rode  himself  and  a  horse  to  death  that 
day  in  stopping  a  stampede.  Pain  they  knew  not, 
fear  they  had  not,  and  duty  was  their  only  god. 
They  told  her,  simply  as  children,  of  deeds  which 
now  caused  a  shudder,  now  set  tingling  the  full 
blood  of  enthusiasm,  and  opened  up  unconsciously 
to  her  view  a  rude  field  of  knight-errantry,  whose 
principles  sat  strangely  close  with  the  best  tradi- 
tions of  her  own  earlier  land  and  time.  They  were 
knights-errant,  and  for  all  on  the  Ellisville  trail 
there  was  but  one  lady.  So  hopeless  was  the  case 
of  each  that  they  forbore  to  argue  among  them- 
selves. 

"  No  broadhorn  there,"  said  Pinky  Smith,  after 
he  got  well,  and  assumed  the  envied  position  of  ora- 
cle on  matters  at  the  Halfway  House.  "  That  ain't 


THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY   HOUSE 

no  range  stock,  I  want  to  tell  you  all.  What  in 
h — 1  she  doin'  out  yer  I  give  it  up,  but  you  can 
mark  it  down  she  ain't  no  common  sort." 

"  Oh,  she  like  enough  got  some  beau  back  in  the 
States,"  said  another,  grumblingly. 

"  Yes,  er  up  to  Ellis,"  said  Pinky,  sagely. 
"  Thet  lawyer  feller  up  there,  he  come  down  to  the 
ranch  twict  when  I  was  there,  and  I  'low  he's  shinin' 
round  some." 

"  Well,  I  dunno,"  said  the  other,  argumenta- 
tively,  as  though  to  classify  lawyers  and  cow-punch- 
ers in  much  the  same  category. 

"But,  pshaw!"  continued  Pinky.  "He  don't 
seem  to  hold  no  edge  neither,  fur's  I  could  see.  It 
was  him  that  was  a-doin'  all  the  guessin'.  She  just 
a-standin'  pat  all  the  time,  same  fer  him  as  fer  every- 
body else.  Reckon  she  ain't  got  no  beau,  an'  don't 
want  none." 

"Beau  be  d d!"  said  his  friend.  "Who 

said  anything  about  beau  ?  First  thing,  feller's  got 
to  be  fitten.  Who's  fitten  ?  " 

"  That's  right,"  said  Pinky.  "  Yet  I  shore  hope 
she's  located  yer  fer  keeps.  Feller  says,  '  They's 
no  place  like  home/  and  it's  several  mile  to  an- 
other ranch  like  that'n',  er  to  another  gal  like 
her." 

"  D n  the  lawyer !  "  said  the  other,  after  a 

time  of  silence,  as  they  rode  on  together;  and 
Pinky  made  understanding  reply. 


STILL  A  REBEL  175 

"  That's  what !  "  said  he.  "  D n  him,  any- 
how!" 

As  for  Edward  Franklin  himself,  he  could  not 
in  his  moments  of  wildest  egotism  assign  himself  to 
a  place  any  better  than  that  accorded  each  member 
of  the  clans  who  rallied  about  this  Southern  lady 
transplanted  to  the  Western  plains.  Repulsed  in 
his  first  unskilled,  impetuous  advance ;  hurt,  stung, 
cut  to  the  quick  as  much  at  his  own  clumsiness  and 
failure  to  make  himself  understood  as  at  the  actual 
rebuff  received,  Franklin  none  the  less  in  time 
recovered  sufficient  equanimity  to  seek  to  avail 
himself  of  such  advantages  as  still  remained;  and 
he  resolved  grimly  that  he  would  persist  until  at 
least  he  had  been  accepted  as  something  better  than 
a  blundering  boor.  Under  Major  Buford's  invita- 
tion he  called  now  and  again  at  the  Halfway  Ranch, 
and  the  major  was  gladder  each  time  to  see  him,  for 
he  valued  the  society  of  one  whose  experiences  ran 
somewhat  parallel  with  his  own,  and  whose  prefer- 
ences were  kindred  to  those  of  his  natural  class; 
and,  moreover,  there  was  always  a  strange  com- 
radery  among  those  whose  problems  were  the  same, 
the  "  neighbours "  of  the  sparsely  settled  West. 
Mrs.  Buford  also  received  Franklin  with  pleasure, 
and  Mary  Ellen  certainly  always  with  politeness. 
Yet,  fatal  sign,  Mary  Ellen  never  ran  for  her  mirror 
when  she  knew  that  Franklin  was  coming.  He  was 
but  one  of  the  many  who  came  to  the  Halfway 


THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

House ;  and  Franklin,  after  more  than  one  quiet  re- 
pulse, began  to  know  that  this  was  an  indifference 
grounded  deeper  than  the  strange  haughtiness 
which  came  to  be  assumed  by  so  many  women  of 
the  almost  womanless  West,  who  found  themselves 
in  a  land  where  the  irreverent  law  of  supply  and 
demand  assigned  to  them  a  sudden  value. 

Of  lovers  Mary  Ellen  would  hear  of  none,  and 
this  was  Franklin's  sole  consolation.  Yet  all  day  as 
he  laboured  there  was  present  in  his  subconscious- 
ness  the  personality  of  this  proud  and  sweet-faced 
girl.  Her  name  was  spelled  large  upon  the  sky, 
was  voiced  by  all  the  birds.  It  was  indeed  her  face 
that  looked  up  from  the  printed  page.  He  dared 
not  hope,  and  yet  shrunk  from  the  thought  that  he 
must  not,  knowing  what  lethargy  must  else  ingulf 
his  soul.  By  day  a  sweet,  compelling  image  fol- 
lowed him,  until  he  sought  relief  in  sleep.  At  night 
she  was  again  the  shadowy  image  of  his  dreams. 
Reason  as  well  as  instinct  framed  excuses  for  him, 
and  he  caught  himself  again  arguing  with  the  world 
that  here  was  destiny,  here  was  fate!  Wandering 
blindly  over  all  the  weary  intervening  miles,  weak 
and  in  need  of  strength  to  shelter  her,  tender  and 
noble  and  gentle,  worthy  of  love  and  needing  love 
and  care  in  these  rude  conditions  for  which  she  was 
so  unfit — surely  the  stars  had  straightened  out  his 
life  for  him  and  told  him  what  to  do !  He  heard  so 
clearly  the  sweet,  imperious  summons  which  is  the 


STILL  A  REBEL 


177 


second  command  put  upon  animate  nature :  First, 
to  prevail,  to  live ;  second,  to  love,  to  survive !  Life 
and  love,  the  first  worthless  without  the  latter,  bar- 
ren, flowerless,  shorn  of  fruitage,  branded  with  the 
mark  of  the  unattained.  As  tree  whispers  unto  tree, 
as  flower  yearns  to  flower,  so  came  the  mandate  to 
his  being  in  that  undying  speech  that  knows  no 
change  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  time. 

Against  this  overwhelming  desire  of  an  impetu- 
ous love  there  was  raised  but  one  barrier — the  en- 
during resistance  of  a  woman's  will,  silent,  not 
strenuous,  unprotesting,  but  unchanged.  To  all  his 
renewed  pleadings  the  girl  said  simply  that  she  had 
no  heart  to  give,  that  her  hope  of  happiness  lay 
buried  on  the  field  of  Louisburg,  in  the  far-off 
land  that  she  had  known  in  younger  and  less 
troubled  days.  Leaving  that  land,  orphaned,  pen- 
niless, her  life  crushed  down  at  the  very  portal 
of  womanhood,  her  friends  scattered,  her  family 
broken  and  destroyed,  her  whole  world  overturned, 
she  had  left  also  all  hope  of  a  later  happiness. 
There  remained  to  her  only  the  memory  of  a  past, 
the  honour  that  she  prized,  the  traditions  which  she 
must  maintain.  She  was  "  unreconstructed,"  as 
she  admitted  bitterly.  Moreover,  so  she  said,  even 
could  it  lie  in  her  heart  ever  to  prove  unfaithful 
to  her  lover  who  had  died  upon  the  field  of  duty, 
never  could  it  happen  that  she  would  care  for  one 
of  those  who  had  murdered  him,  who  had  murdered 


1^8     THE  GIRL  AT   THE  HALFWAY   HOUSE 

her  happiness,  who  had  ruined  her  home,  destroyed 
her  people,  and  banished  her  in  this  far  wandering 
from  the  land  that  bore  her. 

"  Providence  did  not  bring  me  here  to  marry 
you,"  she  said  to  Franklin  keenly,  "  but  to  tell  you 
that  I  would  never  marry  you — never,  not  even 
though  I  loved  you,  as  I  do  not.  I  am  still  a  South- 
erner, am  still  a  '  rebel/  Moreover,  I  have  learned 
my  lesson.  I  shall  never  love  again." 


CHAPTER   XIX 

THAT   WHICH   HE   WOULD 

POOR  medicine  as  it  is,  work  was  ever  the  best 
salve  known  for  a  hurting  heart.  Franklin  betook 
him  to  his  daily  work,  and  he  saw  success  attend 
his  labours.  Already  against  the  frank  barbarity 
of  the  cattle  days  there  began  to  push  the  hand  of 
the  "  law-and-order "  element,  steadily  increasing 
in  power.  Although  all  the  primitive  savage  in 
him  answered  to  the  summons  of  those  white-hot 
days  to  every  virile,  daring  nature,  Franklin  none 
the  less  felt  growing  in  his  heart  the  stubbornness 
of  the  man  of  property,  the  landholding  man,  the 
man  who  even  unconsciously  plans  a  home,  re- 
solved to  cling  to  that  which  he  has  taken  of  the 
earth's  surface  for  his  own.  Heredity,  civilization, 
that  which  we  call  common  sense,  won  the  victory. 
Though  he  saw  his  own  face  in  the  primeval  mirror 
here  held  up  to  him,  Franklin  turned  away.  It 
was  sure  to  him  that  he  must  set  his  influence 
against  this  unorganized  day  of  waste  and  riotous- 
ness.  He  knew  that  this  perfervid  time  could  not 
endure,  knew  that  the  sweep  of  American  civiliza- 

179 


l8o     THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY  HOUSE 

tion  must  occupy  all  this  land  as  it  had  all  the  lands 
from  the  Alleghenies  to  the  plains.  He  foresaw  in 
this  crude  new  region  the  scene  of  a  great  material 
activity,  a  vast  industrial  development.  The  swift 
action  of  the  early  days  was  to  the  liking  of  his 
robust  nature,  and  the  sweep  of  the  cattle  trade, 
sudden  and  unexpected  as  it  had  been,  in  no  wise 
altered  his  original  intention  of  remaining  as  an 
integer  of  this  community.  It  needed  no  great 
foresight  to  realize  that  all  this  land,  now  so  wild 
and  cheap,  could  not  long  remain  wild  and  cheap, 
but  must  follow  the  history  of  values  as  it  had  been 
written  up  to  the  edge  of  that  time  and  place. 

Of  law  business  of  an  actual  sort  there  was  next 
to  none  at  Ellisville,  all  the  transactions  being  in 
wild  lands  and  wild  cattle,  but,  as  did  all  attorneys  of 
the  time,  Franklin  became  broker  before  he  grew  to 
be  professional  man.  Fortunate  in  securing  the 
handling  of  the  railroad  lands,  he  sold  block  after 
block  of  wild  land  to  the  pushing  men  who  came 
out  to  the  "  front "  in  search  of  farms  and  cattle 
ranches.  His  own  profits  he  invested  again  in  land. 
Thus  he  early  found  himself  making  much  more 
than  a  livelihood,  and  laying  the  foundation  of  later 
fortune.  Long  since  he  had  "  proved  up  "  his  claim 
and  moved  into  town  permanently,  having  office 
and  residence  in  the  great  depot  hotel  which  was 
the  citadel  of  the  forces  of  law  and  order,  of  progress 
and  civilization  in  that  land. 


THAT  WHICH   HE  WOULD  181 

The  railroad  company  which  founded  Ellisville 
had  within  its  board  of  directors  a  so-called  "  Land 
and  Improvement  Company,"  which  latter  com- 
pany naturally  had  the  first  knowledge  of  the  pro- 
posed locations  of  the  different  towns  along  the 
advancing  line.  When  the  sale  of  town  lots  was 
thrown  open  to  the  public,  it  was  always  discovered 
that  the  Land  and  Improvement  Company  had  al- 
ready secured  the  best  of  the  property  in  what  was 
to  be  the  business  portion  of  the  town.  In  the  case 
of  Ellisville,  this  inner  corporation  knew  that  there 
was  to  be  located  here  a  railroad-division  point, 
where  ultimately  there  would  be  car  shops  and  a 
long  pay  roll  of  employees.  Such  a  town  was  sure 
to  prosper  much  more  than  one  depending  solely 
upon  agriculture  for  its  support,  as  was  to  be  the 
later  history  of  many  or  most  of  these  far  Western 
towns.  Franklin,  given  a  hint  by  a  friendly  official, 
invested  as  he  was  able  in  town  property  in  the 
village  of  Ellisville,  in  which  truly  it  required  the 
eye  of  faith  to  see  any  prospect  of  great  enhance- 
ment. Betimes  he  became  owner  of  a  quarter- 
section  of  land  here  and  there,  in  course  of  com- 
missions on  sales.  He  was  careful  to  take  only 
such  land  as  he  had  personally  seen  and  thought  fit 
for  farming,  and  always  he  secured  land  as  near  to 
the  railroad  as  was  possible.  Thus  he  was  in  the 
ranks  of  those  foreseeing  men  who  quietly  and 
rapidly  were  making  plans  which  were  later  to  place 


1 82     THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY   HOUSE 

them  among  those  high  in  the  control  of  affairs. 
All  around  were  others,  less  shrewd,  who  were  con- 
tent to  meet  matters  as  they  should  turn  up,  for- 
getting that 

"  The  hypocritic  days 

Bring  diadems  and  fagots  in  their  hands  ; 

To  each  they  offer  gifts  after  his  will." 

Everywhere  was  shown  the  Anglo-Saxon  love 
of  land.  Each  man  had  his  quarter-section  or  more. 
Even  Nora,  the  waitress  at  the  hotel,  had  "  filed  on 
a  quarter,"  and  once  in  perhaps  a  month  or  so 
would  "  reside  "  there  overnight,  a  few  faint  fur- 
rows in  the  soil  (done  by  her  devoted  admirer,  Sam) 
passing  as  those  legal  "  improvements "  which 
should  later  give  her  title  to  a  portion  of  the  earth. 
The  land  was  passing  into  severalty,  coming  into 
the  hands  of  the  people  who  had  subdued  it,  who 
had  driven  out  those  who  once  had  been  its  occu- 
pants. The  Indians  were  now  cleared  away,  not 
only  about  Ellisville  but  far  to  the  north  and  west. 
The  skin-hunters  had  wiped  out  the  last  of  the  great 
herds  of  the  buffalo.  The  face  of  Nature  was 
changing.  The  tremendous  drama  of  the  West 
was  going  on  in  all  its  giant  action.  This  torrent 
of  rude  life,  against  which  the  hands  of  the  law 
were  still  so  weak  and  unavailing,  had  set  for  it  in 
the  ways  of  things  a  limit  for  its  flood  and  a  time  for 
its  receding. 

The  West  was  a  noble  country,  and  it  asked 


THAT  WHICH   HE  WOULD  183 

of  each  man  what  nobility  there  was  in  his  soul. 
Franklin  began  to  grow.  Freed  from  the  dwarfing 
influences  of  army  life,  as  well  as  from  the  repress- 
ing monotony  of  an  old  and  limited  community,  he 
found  in  the  broad  horizon  of  his  new  surroundings 
a  demand  that  he  also  should  expand.  As  he 
looked  beyond  the  day  of  cattle  and  foresaw  the 
time  of  the  plough,  so  also  he  gazed  far  forward  into 
the  avenues  of  his  own  life,  now  opening  more 
clearly  before  him.  He  rapidly  forecast  the  possi- 
bilities of  the  profession  which  he  had  chosen,  and 
with  grim  self-confidence  felt  them  well  within  his 
power.  Beyond  that,  then,  he  asked  himself,  in  his 
curious  self-questioning  manner,  what  was  there  to 
be?  What  was  to  be  the  time  of  his  life  when  he 
could  fold  his  hands  and  say  that,  no  matter  whether 
it  was  success  or  failure  that  he  had  gained,  he  had 
done  that  which  was  in  his  destiny  to  do  ?  Where- 
in was  he  to  gain  that  calmness  and  that  satisfaction 
which  ought  to  attend  each  human  soul,  and  entitle 
it  to  the  words  "  Well  done  "  ?  Odd  enough  were 
some  of  these  self-searchings  which  went  on  be- 
times in  the  little  office  of  this  plainsman  lawyer; 
and  strangest  of  all  to  Franklin's  mind  was  the 
feeling  that,  as  his  heart  had  not  yet  gained  that 
which  was  its  right,  neither  had  his  hand  yet  fallen 
upon  that  which  it  was  to  do. 

Franklin  rebelled  from  the  technical  side  of  the 
law,  not  so  much  by  reason  of  its  dry  difficulty  as 


THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY  HOUSE 

through  scorn  of  its  admitted  weakness,  its  inability 
to  do  more  than  compromise ;  through  contempt  of 
its  pretended  beneficences  and  its  frequent  ineffi- 
ciency and  harmfulness.  In  the  law  he  saw  plainly 
the  lash  of  the  taskmaster,  driving  all  those  yoked 
together  in  the  horrid  compact  of  society,  a  master 
inexorable,  stone-faced,  cruel.  In  it  he  found  no 
comprehension,  seeing  that  it  regarded  humanity 
either  as  a  herd  of  slaves  or  a  pack  of  wolves,  and 
not  as  brethren  labouring,  suffering,  performing  a 
common  destiny,  yielding  to  a  common  fate.  He 
saw  in  the  law  no  actual  recognition  of  the  individ- 
ual, but  only  the  acknowledgment  of  the  social 
body.  Thus,  set  down  in  a  day  miraculously  clear, 
placed  among  strong  characters  who  had  never  yet 
yielded  up  their  souls,  witnessing  that  time  which 
knew  the  last  blaze  of  the  spirit  of  men  absolutely 
free,  Franklin  felt  his  own  soul  leap  into  a  prayer 
for  the  continuance  of  that  day.  Seeing  then  that 
this  might  not  be,  he  fell  sometimes  to  the  dreaming 
of  how  he  might  some  day,  if  blessed  by  the  pitying 
and  understanding  spirit  of  things,  bring  out  these 
types,  perpetuate  these  times,  and  so  at  last  set  them 
lovingly  before  a  world  which  might  at  least  won- 
der, though  it  did  not  understand.  Such  were  his 
vague  dreams,  unformulated ;  but,  happily,  mean- 
time he  was  not  content  merely  to  dream. 


CHAPTER   XX 

THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

"  Miss  MA'Y  ELLEN,"  cried  Aunt  Lucy,  thrust- 
ing her  head  in  at  the  door,  "  oh,  Miss  Ma'y  Ellen, 
I  wish't  you'd  come  out  yer  right  quick.  They's 
two  o'  them  prai'  dogs  out  yer  a-chasin'  ouah  hens 
agin — nasty,  dirty  things !  " 

"  Very  well,  Lucy,"  called  out  a  voice  in  an- 
swer. Mary  Ellen  arose  from  her  seat  near  the 
window,  whence  she  had  been  gazing  out  over  the 
wide,  flat  prairie  lands  and  at  the  blue,  unwinking 
sky.  Her  step  was  free  and  strong,  but  had  no 
hurry  of  anxiety.  It  was  no  new  thing  for  these 
"prairie  dogs,"  as  Aunt  Lucy  persisted  in  calling 
the  coyotes,  to  chase  the  chickens  boldly  up  to  the 
very  door.  These  marauding  wolves  had  at  first 
terrified  her,  but  in  her  life  on  the  prairies  she  had 
learned  to  know  them  better.  Gathering  each  a 
bit  of  stick,  she  and  Aunt  Lucy  drove  away  the  two 
grinning  daylight  thieves,  as  they  had  done  dozens 
of  times  before  their  kin,  all  eager  for  a  taste  of  this 
new  feathered  game  that  had  come  in  upon  the 
range.  With  plenteous  words  of  admonition,  the 
*3  185 


1 86     THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

two  corralled  the  excited  but  terror-stricken  spec- 
kled hen,  which  had  been  the  occasion  of  the 
trouble,  driving  her  back  within  the  gates  of  the 
inclosure  they  had  found  a  necessity  for  the  preser- 
vation of  the  fowls  of  their  "  hen  ranch."  Once 
inside  the  protecting  walls,  the  erring  one  raised  her 
feathers  in  great  anger  and  stalked  away  in  high 
dudgeon,  clucking  out  anathemas  against  a  country 
where  a  law-abiding  hen  could  not  venture  a  quar- 
ter of  a  mile  from  home,  even  at  the  season  when 
bugs  were  juiciest. 

"  It's  that  same  Domineck,  isn't  it,  Lucy  ?  "  said 
Mary  Ellen,  leaning  over  the  fence  and  gazing  at 
the  fowls. 

"  Yess'm,  that  same  ole  hen,  blame  her  fool 
soul !  She's  mo'  bother'n  she's  wuf.  I  'clare,  ever* 
time  I  takes  them  er'  chickens  out  fer  a  walk  that 
ole  Sar'  Ann  hen,  she  boun'  fer  to  go  off  by  herse'f 
somewheres,  she's  that  briggotty;  an*  first  thing  I 
knows,  dar  she  is  in  trouble  again — low  down,  no 
'count  thing,  I  say !  " 

"  Poor  old  Sarah'!  "  said  Mary  Ellen.  "  Why, 
Aunt  Lucy,  she's  raised  more  chickens  than  any 
hen  we've  got." 

"Thass  all  right,  Miss  Ma'y  Ellen,  thass  all 
right,  so  she  have,  but  she  made  twict  as  much 
trouble  as  any  hen  we  got,  too.  We  kin  git  two 
dollahs  fer  her  cooked,  an'  seems  like  long's  she's 
erlive  she  boun'  fer  ter  keep  me  chasin'  'roun'  after 


THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE  187 

her.  I  'clare,  she  jest  keep  the  whole  lot  o'  ouah 
chickens  wore  down  to  a  frazzle,  she  traipsin  'roun' 
all  the  time,  an'  them  a-follerin'  her.  Jess  like  some 
womenfolks.  They  gad  'roun'  so  much  they  kain't 
git  no  flesh  ontoe  'em.  An',  of  co'se,"  she  added 
argumentatively,  "  we  all  got  to  keep  up  the  reppy- 
tation  o'  ouah  cookin'.  I  kain't  ask  these  yer  men 
a  dollah  a  meal — not  fer  no  lean  ole  hen  wif  no  meat 
ontoe  her  bones — no,  ma'am." 

Aunt  Lucy  spoke  with  professional  pride  and 
with  a  certain  right  to  authority.  The  reputation 
of  the  Halfway  House  ran  from  the  Double  Forks 
of  the  Brazos  north  to  Abilene,  and  much  of  the 
virtue  of  the  table  was  dependent  upon  the  re- 
sources of  this  "  hen  ranch,"  whose  fame  was  spread 
abroad  throughout  the  land.  Saved  by  the  sur- 
passing grace  of  pie  and  "  chicken  fixings,"  the 
halting  place  chosen  for  so  slight  reason  by  Buford 
and  his  family  had  become  a  permanent  abode, 
known  gratefully  to  many  travellers  and  productive 
of  more  than  a  living  for  those  who  had  established 
it.  It  was,  after  all,  the  financial  genius  of  Aunt 
Lucy,  accustomed  all  her  life  to  culinary  problems, 
that  had  foreseen  profit  in  eggs  and  chickens  when 
she  noted  the  exalted  joy  with  which  the  hungry 
cow-punchers  fell  upon  a  meal  of  this  sort  after  a 
season  of  salt  pork,  tough  beef,  and  Dutch-oven 
bread. 

At  first  Major  Buford  rebelled  at  the  thought  of 


!88      THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

innkeeping.  His  family  had  kept  open  house  be- 
fore the  war,  and  he  came  from  a  land  where  the 
thoughts  of  hospitality  and  of  price  were  not  to  be 
mentioned  in  the  same  day.  Yet  all  about  him  lay 
the  crude  conditions  of  a  raw,  new  country.  At 
best  he  could  get  no  product  from  the  land  for  many 
months,  and  then  but  a  problematical  one.  He 
was  in  a  region  where  each  man  did  many  things, 
and  first  that  thing  which  seemed  nearest  at  hand 
to  be  done.  It  was  the  common  sense  of  old  Aunt 
Lucy  which  discovered  the  truth  of  the  commercial 
proposition  that  what  a  man  will  pay  for  a  given 
benefit  is  what  he  ought  to  pay.  Had  Aunt  Lucy 
asked  the  cow-punchers  even  twice  her  tariff  for  a 
pie  they  would  have  paid  it  gladly.  Had  Mary 
Ellen  asked  them  for  their  spurs  and  saddles,  the 
latter  would  have  been  laid  down. 

From  the  Halfway  House  south  to  the  Red 
River  there  was  nothing  edible.  And  over  this 
Red  River  there  came  now  swarming  uncounted 
thousands  of  broad-horned  cattle,  driven  by  many 
bodies  of  hardy,  sunburned,  beweaponed,  hungry 
men.  At  Ellisville,  now  rapidly  becoming  an  im- 
portant cattle  market,  the  hotel  accommodations 
were  more  pretentious  than  comfortable,  and  many 
a  cowman  who  had  sat  at  the  board  of  the  Half- 
way House  going  up  the  trail,  would  mount  his 
horse  and  ride  back  daily  twenty-five  miles  for 
dinner.  Such  are  the  attractions  of  corn  bread 


THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 


I89 


and  chicken  when  prepared  by  the  hands  of  a 
real  genius  gone  astray  on  this  much-miscooked 
world. 

Many  other  guests  were  among  those  "  loca- 
tors," who  came  out  to,  Ellisville  and  drove  to  the 
south  in  search  of  "  claims."  These  usually  trav- 
elled over  the  route  of  Sam,  the  stage-driver,  who 
carried  the  mail  to  Plum  Centre  during  its  life,  and 
who  never  failed  to  sound  the  praises  of  the  Halfway 
House.  Thus  the  little  Southern  family  quickly 
found  itself  possessed  of  a  definite,  profitable,  and 
growing  business.  Buford  was  soon  able  to  em- 
ploy aid  in  making  his  improvements.  He  con- 
structed a  large  dugout,  after  the  fashion  of  the 
dwelling  most  common  in  the  country  at  that  time. 
This  manner  of  dwelling,  practically  a  roofed-over 
cellar,  its  side-walls  showing  but  a  few  feet  above 
the  level  of  the  earth,  had  been  discovered  to  be  a 
very  practical  and  comfortable  form  of  living  place 
by  those  settlers  who  found  a  region  practically  bar- 
ren of  timber,  and  as  yet  unsupplied  with  brick  or 
boards.  In  addition  to  the  main  dugout  there  was 
a  rude  barn  built  of  sods,  and  towering  high  above 
the  squat  buildings  rose  the  frame  of  the  first  wind- 
mill on  the  cattle  trail,  a  landmark  for  many  miles. 
Seeing  these  things  growing  up  about  him,  at  the 
suggestion  and  partly  through  the  aid  of  his  widely 
scattered  but  kind-hearted  neighbours,  Major  Bu- 
ford began  to  take  on  heart  of  grace.  He  foresaw 


THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

for  his  people  an  independence,  rude  and  far  below 
their  former  plane  of  life,  it  was  true,  yet  infinitely 
better  than  a  proud  despair. 

It  was  perhaps  the  women  who  suffered  most 
in  the  transition  from  older  lands  to  this  new,  wild 
region.  The  barren  and  monotonous  prospect,  the 
high-keyed  air  and  the  perpetual  winds,  thinned  and 
wore  out  the  fragile  form  of  Mrs.  Buford.  This 
impetuous,  nerve-wearing  air  was  much  different 
from  the  soft,  warm  winds  of  the  flower-laden 
South.  At  night  as  she  lay  down  to  sleep  she  did 
not  hear  the  tinkle  of  music  nor  the  voice  of  night- 
singing  birds,  which  in  the  scenes  of  her  girlhood 
had  been  familiar  sounds.  The  moan  of  the  wind 
in  the  short,  hard  grass  was  different  from  its  whis- 
per in  the  peach  trees,  and  the  shrilling  of  the  coy- 
otes made  but  rude  substitute  for  the  trill  of  the 
love-bursting  mocking  bird  that  sang  its  myriad 
song  far  back  in  old  Virginia. 

Aunt  Lucy's  soliloquizing  songs,  when  she 
ceased  the  hymns  of  her  fervid  Methodism,  turned 
always  to  that  far-off,  gentle  land  where  life  had 
been  so  free  from  anxiety  or  care.  Of  Dixie,  of  the 
Potomac,  of  old  Kentucky,  of  the  "  Mississip',"  of 
the  land  of  Tennessee — a  score  of  songs  of  exile 
would  flow  unconscious  from  her  lips,  until  at  last, 
bethinking  to  herself,  she  would  fall  to  weeping, 
covering  her  face  with  her  apron  and  refusing  to  be 
comforted  by  any  hand  but  that  of  Mary  Ellen,  the 


THE   HALFWAY  HOUSE  191 

"young  Miss  Beecham,"  whose  fortunes  she  had 
followed  to  the  end  of  the  world. 

Sometimes  at  night  Mrs.  Buford  and  her  niece 
sang  together  the  songs  of  the  old  South,  Mary 
Ellen  furnishing  accompaniment  with  her  guitar. 
They  sang  together,  here  beneath  the  surface  of  this 
sweeping  sea  of  land,  out  over  which  the  red  eye  of 
their  home  looked  wonderingly.  And  sometimes 
Mary  Ellen  sang  to  her  guitar  alone,  too  often 
songs  which  carried  her  back  to  a  morbid,  mental 
state,  from  which  not  even  the  high  voice  of  this 
glad,  new  land  could  challenge  her.  Very  far  away 
to  her  seemed  even"  the  graves  of  Louisburg. 
Father,  mother,  brothers,  lover,  every  kin  of  earth 
nearest  to  her,  had  not  death  claimed  them  all? 
What  was  there  left,  what  was  there  to  be  hoped 
here,  cast  away  on  this  sea  of  land,  this  country  that 
could  never  be  a  land  of  homes?  Sad  doctrine, 
this,  for  a  young  woman  in  her  early  twenties,  five 
feet  five,  with  the  peach  on  her  cheek  in  spite  of 
the  burning  wind,  and  hands  that  reached  out  for 
every  little  ailing  chicken,  for  every  kitten  or  puppy 
that  wanted  comforting. 

But  when  the  morning  came  and  the  sun  rose, 
and  the  blue  sky  smiled,  and  all  the  earth  seemed  to 
be  vibrant  with  seme  high-keyed  summoning  note 
— how  difficult  then  it  was  to  be  sad!  How  far 
away  indeed  seemed  the  once-familiar  scenes! 
How  hard  it  was  not  to  hope,  here  in  this  land  of 


I0,2     THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

self-reliance  and  belief !  It  was  the  horror  of  Mary 
Ellen's  soul  that  when  this  sun  shone  she  could  not 
be  sad.  This  land,  this  crude,  forbidding,  fascinat- 
ing land — what  was  there  about  it  that  swept  her 
along  against  her  will  ? 


CHAPTER   XXI 

THE  ADVICE   OF  AUNT   LUCY 

ONE  day  Aunt  Lucy,  missing  Quarterly  Meet- 
ing, and  eke  bethinking  herself  of  some  of  those 
aches  and  pains  of  body  and  forebodings  of  mind 
with  which  the  negro  is  never  unprovided,  became 
mournful  in  her  melody,  and  went  to  bed  sighing 
and  disconsolate.  Mary  Ellen  heard  her  voice  up- 
lifted long  and  urgently,  and  suspecting  the  cause, 
at  length  went  to  her  door. 

"  What  is  it,  Aunt  Lucy?  "  she  asked  kindly. 

"  Nothin',  mam ;  I  jess  rasslin'  wif  ther  throne 
o'  Grace  er  Til  bit.  I  don't  wan'  to  'sturb  you-all." 

"  We  don't  want  to  disturb  you,  either,  Aunt 
Lucy,"  said  Mary  Ellen  gently. 

"  Thass  hit,  Miss  Ma'y  Ellen,  thass  hit!  It  ain't 
fitten  fer  a  ole  nigger'ooman  to  be  prayin'  erroun' 
whah  white  folks  is.  You  kain't  seem  to  let  out 
good  an'  free ;  'n  ef  I  kain't  let  out  good  an'  free, 
'pears  like  I  don't  git  no  hoi'  on  salvation.  We  all 
po'  weak  sinners,  Miss  Ma'y  Ellen." 

"  Yes,  I  know,  Lucy." 

"  An'  does  you  know,  Miss  Ma'y  Ellen,  I  sorter 
14  193 


THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

gits  skeered  sometimes,  out  yer,  fer  fear  mer  sup- 
plercashuns  ain't  goin'  take  holt  o'  heaven  jess 
right.  White  folks  has  one  way  er  prayin',  but  er 
nigger  kain't  pray  erlone — no,  mam,  jess  kain't 
pray  erlone." 

"  I  thought  you  were  doing  pretty  well,  Lucy." 

"  Yass'm,  pretty  well,  but  not  nothin'  like  hit 
useter  be  back  in  ole  Vehginny,  when  'bout  er  hun- 
derd  niggers  git  to  prayin'  all  to  onct.  Thass  whut 
goin'  to  fotch  the  powah  on  er  suffrin'  human  soul 
— yes,  ma'm !  " 

"  Now,  Aunt  Lucy,"  said  Mary  Ellen  sagely, 
"there  isn't  anything  wrong  with  your  soul  at  all. 
You're  as  good  an  old  thing  as  ever  breathed,  I'm 
sure  of  that,  and  the  Lord  will  reward  you  if  he  ever 
does  any  one,  white  or  black." 

"  Does  you  think  that,  honey  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  do." 

"  Well,  sometimes  I  thinks  the  Lord  ain'  goin* 
to  fergive  me  fer  all  ther  devilment  I  done  when  I 
was  1'il.  You  know,  Miss  Ma'y  Ellen,  hit  take  a 
life  er  prayer  to  wipe  out  ouah  transgresshuns. 
Now,  how  kin  I  pray,  not  to  say  pray,  out  yer,  in 
tliis  yer  Ian'?  They  ain't  a  chu'ch  in  a  hunderd 
mile  o'  yer,  so  fer's  I  kin  tell,  an'  they  shoh'ly  ain't 
no  chu'ch  fer  cullud  folks.  Law  me,  Miss  Ma'y 
Ellen,  they  ain't  ary  nother  nigger  out  yer  no- 
wheres,  an'  you  don'  know  how  lonesome  I  does 
git !  Seems  to  me  like,  ef  I  c'd  jess  know  er  sengle 


THE  ADVICE  OF  AUNT   LUCY  195 

nigger,  so'st  we  c'd  meet  onct  in  er  while,  an'  so'st 
we  c'd  jess  kneel  down  togetheh  an'  pray  com- 
fer'ble  like,  same's  ef  'twus  back  in  ole  Vehginny — 
why,  Miss  Ma'y  Ellen,  I'd  be  the  happiest  ole 
'ooman  ever  you  did  see.  Mighty  bad  sort  o'  feel- 
in',  when  a  pusson  ain't  right  shore  'bout  they  soul. 
An'  when  I  has  to  pray  erlone,  I  kain't  never  be 
right  shore ! " 

Mary  Ellen  rose  and  went  to  her  room,  return- 
ing with  her  guitar.  She  seated  herself  upon  the 
side  of  the  bed  near  Aunt  Lucy — an  act  which 
would  have  been  impossible  of  belief  back  in  old 
Virginia — and  touched  a  few  low  chords.  "  Listen, 
Aunt  Lucy,"  she  said ;  "  I  will  play  and  you  may 
sing.  That  will  make  you  feel  better,  I  think." 

It  was  only  from  a  perfect  understanding  of  the 
negro  character  that  this  proposal  could  come,  and 
only  a  perfect  dignity  could  carry  it  out  with  grace ; 
yet  there,  beneath  the  floor  of  the  wide  prairie  sea, 
these  strange  exercises  were  carried  on,  the  low 
throbbing  of  the  strings  according  with  the  quaver- 
ing minors  of  the  old-time  hymns,  until  Aunt  Lucy 
wiped  her  eyes  and  smiled. 

"Thank  yer,  Miss  Ma'y  Ellen,"  she  said; 
"  thank  yer  a  thousand  times.  You  shoh'ly  does 
know  how  toe  comfort  folks  mighty  well,  even  a 
pore  ole  nigger.  Law  bless  yer,  honey,  whut  c'd  I 
do  without  yer,  me  out  yer  all  erlone?  Seems  like 
the  Lord  done  gone  'way  fur  off,  'n  I  kain't  fotch 


I96     THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

him  noways;  but  when  white  folks  like  Miss  Ma'y 
Ellen  Beecham  come  set  down  right  side  o'  me  an' 
sing  wif  me,  den  I  know  ther  Lord,  he  standin'  by 
listenin'.  Yas'm,  he  shoh'ly  goin'  to  incline  his 
eah!" 

Women  are  women.  There  is  no  synonym. 
Women,  white  and  white,  black  and  black,  or,  if 
need  be,  white  and  black,  have  sympathies  and  un- 
derstandings and  revealings  which  they  never  carry 
to  the  opposite  sex.  It  is  likely  that  no  man  ever 
explored  the  last  intricacy  of  that  sweet  and  won- 
drous maze,  a  woman's  heart ;  yet  the  woman  who 
marries,  and  who  has  with  her  a  husband,  sets  her- 
self for  the  time  outside  the  circle  of  all  other  hus- 
bandless  women  who  may  be  about  her.  Thus  it 
was  that — without  any  loss  of  self-respect  upon 
the  one  side,  or  any  forgetfulness  upon  the  other  of 
that  immovable  line  between  black  and  white  which 
had  been  part  of  the  immemorial  creed  of  both — 
Mary  Ellen  and  Aunt  Lucy,  being  companionless, 
sometimes  drifted  together  in  the  way  of  things. 

On  the  morning  following  Aunt  Lucy's  de- 
votional exercises  that  good  soul  seemed  to  be 
altogether  happy  and  contented,  and  without  any 
doubts  as  to  her  future  welfare.  She  busied  her- 
self with  the  preparation  of  the  food  for  the  chick- 
ens, meantime  half  unconsciously  humming  a  song 
in  reminiscent  minor.  "  Custard  pie — custard  pie," 
she  sang,  softly,  yet  unctuously,  as  she  stirred  and 


THE  ADVICE  OF  AUNT   LUCY 


197 


mingled  the  materials  before  her ;  "  custard  pie — 
custard  pie.  Hope  ter  eat  hit  twell  I  die — twell 
I  die." 

Mary  Ellen  was  out  in  the  open  air,  bonnetless 
and  all  a-blow.  It  was  a  glorious,  sunny  day,  the 
air  charged  with  some  essence  of  vital  stimulus. 
Tall  and  shapely,  radiant,  not  yet  twenty-three 
years  of  age,  and  mistress  of  earth's  best  blessing, 
perfect  health — how  could  Mary  Ellen  be  sad  ?  All 
the  earth  and  sky,  and  the  little  twittering  ground 
birds,  and  the  bustling  fowls,  forbade  it.  The  very 
stir  of  life  was  everywhere.  She  walked,  but  trod 
as  steps  the  wild  deer,  lightly,  with  confidence, 
high-headed. 

"Chick-chick-chick-chickee!"  called  Mary  El- 
len, bending  over  the  fence  of  the  chicken  yard, 
and  noting  with  pleasure  the  hurrying,  clacking 
throng  of  fowls  that  answered  and  swarmed  about 
her.  "  Chick,  chick,  chick !  " 

"  I'll  be  thah  t'reckly  wif  ther  feed,  Miss  Ma'y 
Ellen,"  called  out  Aunt  Lucy  from  the  kitchen. 
And  presently  she  emerged  and  joined  her  mistress 
at  the  corral. 

"Aunt  Lucy,"  said  Mary  Ellen,  "do  you  sup- 
pose we  could  ever  raise  a  garden  ?  " 

"Whut's  dat,  chile—raise  er  gyarden?  Kain't 
raise  no  gyarden  out  yer,  noways." 

"  I  was  just  thinking  may  be  we  could  have  a 
garden,  just  a  little  one,  next  year." 


THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

"  Hit  don'  never  rain  ernuf,  chile,  in  this  yer 
country." 

"  I  know,  but  couldn't  we  use  the  water  from 
the  well?  The  windmill  is  always  pumping  it  up, 
and  it  only  runs  to  waste.  I  was  thinking,  if  we 
had  a  few  peas,  or  beans,  or  things  like  that,  you 
know " 

"Uh-huh!" 

"  And  do  you  suppose  a  rose  bush  would  grow 
— a  real  rose  bush,  over  by  the  side  of  the  house  ?  " 

"  Law,  no,  chile,  whut  you  talkin'  'bout  ?  Noth- 
m'  hain't  goin'  to  grow  yer,  'less'n  hit's  a  little 
broom  cohn,  er  some  o'  that  alfalafew,  er  that  soht 
er  things.  Few  beans  might,  ef  we  wortered  'em. 
My  Ian ! "  with  a  sudden  interest,  as  she  grasped 
the  thought,  "whut  could  I  git  fer  right  fraish 
beans,  real  string  beans,  I  does  wondeh !  Sakes,  ef 
I  c'd  hev  string  beans  an'  apple  pies,  I  shoh'ly  c'd 
make  er  foh'tune,  right  quick.  Why,  they  tellin' 
me,  some  folks  over  ontoe  that  ther  Smoky  River, 
las'  fall,  they  gethered  'bout  hafe  er  peck  o'  sour 
green  crabapples,  an'  they  trade  hafe  o'  them  ornery 
things  off  fer  a  beef  critter — 'deed  they  did.  String 
beans — why,  law,  chile !  " 

"We'll  have  to  think  about  this  garden  ques- 
tion some  day,"  said  Mary  Ellen.  She  leaned 
against  the  corral  post,  looking  out  over  the  wide 
expanse  of  the  prairie  round  about.  "  Are  those 
our  antelope  out  there,  Lucy  ?  "  she  asked,  point- 


THE  ADVICE  OF  AUNT  LUCY  199 

ing  out  with  care  the  few  tiny  objects,  thin  and 
knifelike,  crowned  with  short  black  forking  tips, 
which  showed  up  against  the  sky  line  on  a  dis- 
tant ridge.  "  I  think  they  must  be.  I  haven't 
noticed  them  for  quite  a  while." 

"  Yass'm,"  said  Aunt  Lucy,  after  a  judicial  look. 
"  Them  blame  Til  goats.  Thass  um.  I  wish't  they 
all  wuzn't  so  mighty  peart  an'  knowin'  all  ther  time, 
so'st  Majah  Buford  he  c'd  git  one  o'  them  now  an' 
then  fer  to  eat.  Antelope  tennerline  is  shoh'ly 
mighty  fine,  briled.  Now,  ef  we  jess  had  a  few 
sweet  'taters.  But,  law !  whut  am  I  sayin'  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Mary  Ellen  practically.  "We 
haven't  the  antelope  yet." 

"  I  'member  mighty  well  how  Cap'n  Franklin 
sent  us  down  er  quarter  o'  an'lope,"  said  Aunt 
Lucy.  "  Mighty  fine  meat,  hit  wuz.  An*  to  think, 
me  a  brilin'  a  piece  o'  hit  fer  a  low-down  white  trash 
cow-driver  whut  come  yer  to  eat!  Him  a-sayin' 
he'd  ruther  hev  chicken,  cause  he  wuz  raised  on  an'- 
lope! Whut  kin'  o'  talk  wuz  thet?  He  talk  like 
an'lope  mighty  common.  Takes  Cap'n  Franklin 
toe  git  ole  Mr.  An'lope,  though. 

"Er— Miss  Ma'y  Ellen,"  began  Aunt  Lucy 
presently,  and  apparently  with  a  certain  reserva- 
tion. 

"Yes?" 

Aunt  Lucy  came  over  and  sat  down  upon  a  sod 
heap,  resting  her  chin  upon  her  hand  and  looking 


20Q     THE   GIRL  AT   THE  HALFWAY   HOUSE 

fixedly  at  the  girl,  who  still  stood  leaning  against 
the  post. 

"  Er— Miss  Ma'y  Ellen "  she  began  again. 

"Yes.    What  is  it,  Lucy?" 

"  Does  you  know ?  " 

"Do  I  know  what?" 

"  Does  you  know  who's  jess  erbout  ther  fines' 
and  likelies'  man  whut  lives  in  all  these  yer  pahts 
erroun'  yer  ?  " 

Mary  Ellen  stopped  tossing  bits  of  bread  to  the 
chickens.  "  No,  Aunt  Lucy/'  she  said.  "  I  hadn't 
thought  about  that." 

"  Yes,  you  has ! "  cried  Aunt  Lucy,  rising  and 
shaking  a  bodeful  forefinger.  "  Yes  you  has,  an* 
yes  you  does!  An'  you  don'  'preshuate  him,  thass 
whut.  Him  a  wushshippin'  you !  " 

Mary  Ellen  began  tossing  bread  again.  "  How 
do  you  -know  that  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  How  does  I  know  ? — law  me,  jes  listen  to  thet 
chile !  How  does  I  know  ?  Ain'  he  done  tole  me, 
an'  yo'  An'  Lizzie,  an'  Majah  Buford — an'  you? 
Ain'  he  done  tole  you  a  dozen  times  ?  Don'  every- 
body know  hit  ?  Him  ez  fine  er  man  you  goin'  toe 
see  right  soon,  I  tell  you.  Tall  ez  yo'  fatheh  wuz, 
an'  strong  ez  er  li'ne.  He  kin  git  ole  Mr.  An'lope. 
He  kin  ride  ary  beastis  in  this  yer  onery  country. 
An'  him  a-wukkin'  for  ther  railroad,  an'  a  lawyeh, 
an'  all  that.  He's  shoh'  boun'  toe  be  rich,  one  o' 
these  yer  days.  An'  he's  a  gemman,  too,  mo'oveh; 


THE  ADVICE  OF  AUNT  LUCY  2OI 

he's  a  gemman!  Reckon  I  knows  quality!  Yas, 
sir,  Cap'n  Franklin,  she  shoh'ly  am  the  bestes'  man 
fer  a  real  lady  to  choosen — bestes'  in  all  this  yer 
Ian'.  Uh-huh!" 

"  I  never  thought  of  him — not  in  that  way," 
said  Mary  Ellen,  not  quite  able  to  put  an  end  to 
this  conversation. 

"  Miss  Ma'y  Ellen,"  said  Aunt  Lucy  solemnly, 
"  I'se  wukked  fer  you  an'  yo'  fam'ly  all  my  life,  an' 
I  hates  to  say  ary  woh'd  what  ain't  fitten.  But  I 
gotto  to  tell  you,  you  ain'  tellin'  the  trufe  to  me,  toe 
yo'  old  black  mammy,  right  now.  I  tells  you,  an'  I 
knows  it,  tha'  hain't  nary  gal  on  earth  ever  done 
look  at  no  man,  I  don't  care  who  he  wuz,  'thout 
thinkin'  'bout  him,  an'  'cidin'  in  her  min',  one  way 
er  otheh  whetheh  she  like  fer  to  mah'y  that  ther 
man  er  not !  If  er  'ooman  say  she  do  different  f 'om 
thet,  she  shoh'ly  fergettin'  o'  the  trufe,  thass  all! 
Ain'  thought  o'  him !  Go  'long ! "  Aunt  Lucy 
wiped  her  hand  upon  her  apron  violently  in  the 
vehemence  of  her  incredulity. 

Mary  Ellen's  face  sobered  with  a  trace  of  the 
old  melancholy. 

"Aunt  Lucy,"  she  said,  "you  mean  kindly,  I 
am  sure,  but  you  must  not  talk  to  me  of  these 
things.  Don't  you  remember  the  old  days  back 
home?  Can  you  forget  Master  Henry,  Aunt  Lucy 
— can  you  forget  the  days — those  days ?  " 

Aunt  Lucy  rose  and  went  over  to  Mary  Ellen 


2Q2     THE  GIRL  AT   THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

and  took  her  hand  between  her  own  great  black 
ones.  "  No,  I  doesn't  fergit  nothing  Miss  Ma'y 
Ellen,"  she  said,  wiping  the  girl's  eyes  as  though 
she  were  still  a  baby.  "  I  doesn't  fergit  Mas' 
Henry,  Gord  bless  him !  I  doesn't  fergit  him  any 
mo'n  you  does.  How  kin  I,  when  I  done  loved 
him  much  ez  I  did  you?  Wuzn't  I  goin'  to  come 
'long  an'  live  wif  you  two,  an*  take  keer  o'  you, 
same's  I  did  to  the  old  place?  I  was  a-lookin'  to 
ther  time  when  you  an'  Mas'  Henry  wuz  a-goin'  ter 
be  mah'ied.  But  now  listen  toe  yo'  ole  black  mam- 
my, whut  knows  a  heap  mo'n  you  does,  an'  who  is 
a-talkinj  toe  you  because  you  ain't  got  no  real 
mammy  o'  yer  own  no  mo'.  You  listen  toe  me. 
Now,  I  done  had  fo'  husban's,  me.  Two  o'  them 
done  died,  an'  one  distapeart  in  the  wah,  an'  one  he 
turn  out  no  'count.  Now,  you  s'pose  I  kain't  love 
no  otheh  man  ?  " 

Mary  Ellen  could  not  restrain  a  smile,  but  it  did 
not  impinge  upon  the  earnestness  of  the  other. 

"Yas'm,  Miss  Ma'y  Ellen,"  she  continued, 
again  taking  the  girl's  face  between  her  hands. 
"  Gord,  he  say,  it  hain't  good  fer  man  toe  be  erlone. 
An'  Gord  knows,  speshul  in  er  Ian'  like  this  yer,  hit's 
a  heap  mo'  fitten  fer  a  man  toe  be  erlone  then  fer  a 
'ooman.  Some  wimmen-folks,  they's  made  fer 
grievin',  all  ther  time,  fer  frettin',  an'  worr'in',  an' 
er-mopin'  'roun'.  Then,  agin,  some  is  made  fer 
lovin' — I  don'  say  fer  lovin'  mo'n  one  man  to  er 


THE  ADVICE  OF  AUNT   LUCY  203 

time;  fer  ther  ain't  no  good  'ooman  ever  did 
thet.  But  some  is  made  fer  lovin'.  They  sech  er 
heap  o'  no  'count  folks  in  ther  worl',  hit  do  seem 
like  a  shame  when  one  o'  them  sort  don'  love  no- 
body, an'  won't  let  nobody  love  them !  " 

Mary  Ellen  was  silent.  She  could  not  quite  say 
the  word  to  stop  the  old  servant's  garrulity,  and  the 
latter  went  on. 

"  Whut  I  does  say,  Miss  Ma'y  Ellen,"  she  re- 
sumed, earnestly  looking  into  the  girl's  face  as 
though  to  carry  conviction  with  her  speech — 
"  whut  I  does  say,  an'  I  says  hit  fer  yo'  own  good, 
is  this :  Mas'  Henry,  he's  daid !  He's  daid  an* 
buh'ied,  an'  flowehs  growin'  oveh  his  grave,  yeahs 
'n  yeahs.  An'  you  never  wuz  mahied  toe  him. 
An'  you  wan't  nothin'  but  a  gal.  Chile,  you  don't 
know  nothin'  'bout  lovin'  yit.  Now,  I  says  toe  you, 
whut's  ther  use?  Thass  hit,  Miss  Ma'y  Ellen, 
whut's  ther  use?" 


CHAPTER   XXII 

EN   VOYAGE 

"  I  WISH,  Sam,"  said  Franklin  one  morning  as 
he  stopped  at  the  door  of  the  livery  barn — "  I  wish 
that  you  would  get  me  up  a  good  team.  I'm  think- 
ing of  driving  over  south  a  little  way  to-day." 

"  All  right,  Cap,"  said  Sam.  "  I  reckon  we  can 
fix  you  up.  How  far  you  goin'  ?  " 

"  Well,  about  twenty-five  or  thirty  miles,  per- 
haps." 

"  Which  will  bring  you,"  said  Sam  meditative- 
ly, "  just  about  to  the  Halfway  House.  Seein'  it's 
about  there  you'll  be  stopping  I  reckon  I  better  give 
you  my  new  buggy.  I  sort  of  keep  it,  you  know, 
for  special  'casions." 

Franklin  was  too  much  absorbed  to  really  com- 
prehend this  delicate  attention,  even  when  Sam 
rolled  out  the  carriage  of  state,  lovingly  dusting  off 
the  spokes  and  with  ostentation  spreading  out  the 
new  lap  robe.  But  finally  he  became  conscious  of 
Sam,  standing  with  one  foot  on  the  hub  of  a  wheel, 
chewing  a  straw,  and  with  a  certain  mental  pertur- 
bation manifest  in  his  countenance. 
204 


EN  VOYAGE  2O$ 

"  Cap,"  said  he,  "  I  know  just  how  you  feel." 

"What's  that?"  said  Franklin. 

"Well,  I  mean,  I  allow  me  and  you  is  pretty 
much  in  the  same  boat." 

"Eh?"  said  Franklin,  puzzled. 

"  Why,  both  us  fellers  is  fixed  about  the  same." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  don't  quite  understand  you." 

"  Well,  now,  er — that  is,  you  know,  we  both  got 
a  girl,  you  know — I  mean,  we  each  has  a  girl " 

Franklin's  face  was  not  inviting,  which  fact  Sam 
noticed,  hastening  with  his  apology. 

"  Oh,  no  offence,  Cap,"  said  he  hurriedly,  "  but 
I  was  just  a-thinkin'.  You  know  that  Nory  girl 
over  to  the  hotel.  Well,  now,  I'm  gone  on  that  girl, 
the  worst  sort  o'  way.  Honest,  Cap,  I  ain't  happy. 
I  used  ter  eat  an'  sleep  'thout  no  sort  of  trouble,  but 
now  I'm  all  used  up.  I  ain't  right.  An'  it's  Nory." 

"  Why  don't  you  marry  her  ?  "  asked  Franklin 
calmly. 

Sam  gasped.  "  I— I— that's  it,  that's  just  it! 
I — can't  ast  her!"  he  said,  with  despair  and 
conviction  in  his  voice.  "  I've  tried,  and  I  can't 
say  a  word  to  her  about  it,  nothin'  more  than  mebbe 
to  ast  her  to  pass  me  the  butter.  She  don't  seem 
to  understand." 

"  Well,  what  do  you  expect  ?  Do  you  think  she 
is  going  to  ask  you  about  it  herself  ?  " 

"  My  God,  Cap,  I  don't  know !  If  ever  she  did, 
I  know  mighty  well  what  I'd  say.  But  she  won't, 


2o6     THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

and  I  can't.  And  there  we  are.  I  lose  my  nerve 
every  time  I  try  to  speak  to  her.  Now,  I  say  this 
to  you,  man  to  man,  you  know,  and  no  one  the 
wiser ;  I  can  talk  to  anybody  else  about  this,  to  any- 
body but  just  Nory.  Now,  you've  been  goin'  down 
to  this  here  Halfway  House  a-plenty  for  a  long 
time,  and  I  don't  know  as  you  seem  much  furder 
along  'an  I  am.  So  I  allowed  maybe  you  was 
hooked  up  a  good  deal  the  way  I  be.  You  go 
down  there,  an'  set  down  and  eat,  an'  you  set 
around  like,  but  can't  seem  to  make  no  break — 
you  don't  dast  to  say  what  you  want  to  say.  Is 
that  so?" 

Franklin  flushed,  his  first  impulse  being  of  dis- 
tinct displeasure;  yet  he  recognised  the  perfect 
good  faith  of  the  other's  remarks  and  turned  away 
without  reply. 

"  An'  what  I  was  goin'  to  say,"  continued  Sam, 
following  after  him,  "  is  like  this.  Now,  you  ain't 
afraid  of  Nory,  an'  I  ain't  afraid  of  Miss  Beecham. 
Turn  about's  fair  play.  I'll  speak  to  Miss  Beecham 
for  you,  if  you'll  just  sort  o'  lay  this  here  before 
Nory  for  me.  You  needn't  say  much,  understand ! 
If  I  ever  onct  get  started,  you  know,  I'll  be  all  right. 
I  could  tell  her  all  about  it  then,  easy  enough. 
Now,  say,  Cap,  six  of  one  and  half  a  dozen  of  the 
other.  Is  it  a  go  ?  " 

Franklin  could  not  keep  back  a  smile.  "  Well, 
in  regard  to  my  half  of  it,"  he  said,  "  I  can  neither 


EN  VOYAGE 


207 


affirm  nor  deny  it.  But  if  what  you  say  were  true, 
don't  you  think  you  might  find  it  pretty  hard  to 
talk  to  Miss  Beauchamp  on  this  matter?" 

"  Not  in  a  hundred !  "  said  Sam  eagerly.  "  I'd 
just  as  soon  talk  to  Miss  Beecham  as  not.  I'd 
ruther.  They  ain't  no  feller  around  here  that  I 
think's  any  whiter  than  you  be.  An*  Lord  knows, 
that  girl  down  there  is  handsome  as  ever  looked 
through  a  bridle,  and  kind  as  she  is  handsome. 
I've  seen  her  now,  reg'lar,  in  my  trips  down  there 
for  quite  a  while,  an'  I  promise  you,  she's  a  thor- 
oughbred, an*  high  strung,  but  as  even  gaited  as 
ever  stepped.  Yes,  sir !  " 

"  She  is  all  that,  I  think,  Sam,"  said  Franklin 
soberly. 

" Then  it's  a  go,  Cap?" 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you,  Sam,"  said  Franklin  kindly, 
"  maybe  we'd  better  let  it  run  along  a  little  while 
as  it  is.  You  know,  girls  have  odd  notions  of  their 
own.  Perhaps  a  girl  would  rather  have  a  man 
speak  for  himself  about  that  sort  of  thing.  And 
then,  the  asking  sometimes  is  the  easiest  part  of  it." 

"  Then  you'll  ast  Nory  for  me?  " 

"  Well,  if  I  could  say  a  word,  just  a  hint,  you 
know " 

"  You  won't ! "  exclaimed  Sam  bitterly,  and  in 
tones  of  conviction.  "  You  won't !  There  ain't 
nobody  won't !  I've  tried,  an'  there  won't  nobody ! 
There'll  be  some  d d  cow-puncher  blow  in  there 


208     THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY   HOUSE 

some  day  and  marry  that  Nory  girl,  an'  I  never  will 
git  to  tell  her  the  way  I  feel." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  will,"  said  Franklin.  "  It'll  come 
to  you  some  time;  and  when  it  does,  friend,"  he 
added  gravely,  laying  a  hand  upon  Sam's  shoulder, 
"  I  hope  she'll  not  say  no  to  you  forever." 

"Forever,  Cap?" 

"  Yes,  it  sometimes  happens  that  way." 

"  Forever  ?  Well,  if  Nory  ever  said  no  to  me 
onct,  that  shore  would  settle  it.  I  know  what  I'd 
do :  I'd  sell  out  my  barn  an'  I'd  hit  the  trail  mighty 
quick.  Do  they  ever  do  that  way,  Cap  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Franklin,  "  they  tell  me  that  they 
sometimes  do.  They're  strange  creatures,  Sam." 

"An'  that's  no  lie!"  said  Sam.  "But  here, 
I'm  forgettin'  of  your  span." 

He  disappeared  within  the  barn,  whence 
presently  arose  sounds  of  tumult.  The  "  span " 
emerged  with  one  half  of  its  constituent  parts 
walking  on  its  hind  legs  and  lashing  out  viciously 
in  front. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  about  that  black,"  said 
Franklin  critically.  "  He's  a  bit  bronco,  isn't 
he?" 

"What,  him?"  said  Sam.  "  Naw,  he's  all 
right.  You  don't  suppose  I'd  run  in  any  wild 
stock  on  you,  do  you?  He's  been  hitched  up  sev- 
er'l  times,  an'  he's  plumb  gentle.  May  rare  up  a 
little  at  first,  but  he's  all  right.  Of  course,  you 


EN  VOYAGE  2OQ 

want  to  have  a  little  style  about  you,  goin'  down 
there." 

Franklin  got  into  the  buggy,  while  Sam  held 
the  head  of  the  "  plumb  gentle  "  horse.  When  cast 
loose  the  latter  reared  again  and  came  down  with 
his  fore  feet  over  the  neck  yoke.  Nimbly  recov- 
ering, he  made  a  gallant  attempt  to  kick  in  the  dash- 
board. This  stirred  up  his  mate  to  a  thought  of 
former  days,  and  the  two  went  away  pawing  and 
plunging.  "  So  long ! "  cried  Sam,  waving  his 
hand.  "Good  luck!" 

Franklin  was  for  a  time  busy  in  keeping  his 
team  upon  the  trail,  but  soon  they  settled  down 
into  a  steady,  shuffling  trot,  to  which  they  held 
for  mile  after  mile  over  the  hard  prairie  road. 
The  day  was  bright  and  clear,  the  air  sweet  and 
bracing.  An  hour's  drive  from  the  town,  and  the 
traveller  seemed  in  a  virgin  world.  A  curious  coy- 
ote sat  on  a  hill,  regarding  intently  the  spectacle 
of  a  man  travelling* with  wheels  beneath  him,  instead 
of  the  legs  of  a  horse.  A  band  of  antelope  lined 
up  on  the  crest  of  a  ridge  and  stood  staring  stead- 
fastly. A  gray-winged  hawk  swept  wide  and  easily 
along  the  surface  of  the  earth  on  its  morning  hunt- 
ing trip.  Near  by  the  trail  hundreds  of  cheerful 
prairie  dogs  barked  and  jerked  their  ceaseless  salu- 
tation. An  ancient  and  untroubled  scheme  of  life 
lay  all  around  him,  appealing  in  its  freshness  and  its 
charm.  Why  should  a  man,  a  tall  and  strong  man, 


2io     ™E  GIRL  AT   THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

with  health  upon  his  cheek,  sit  here  with  brooding 
and  downcast  eye,  heedless  of  the  miles  slipping 
behind  him  like  a  ribbon  spun  beneath  the  wheels? 
Franklin  was  learning  how  fast  bound  are  all 
the  ways  of  life  to  the  one  old  changeless  way. 
This  new  land,  which  he  and  his  fellow-men  cov- 
eted, why  was  it  so  desired?  Only  that  over  it,  as 
over  all  the  world  behind  it,  there  might  be  builded 
homes.  For,  as  he  reflected,  the  adventurers  of 
the  earth  had  always  been  also  the  home-builders; 
and  there  followed  for  him  the  bitter  personal 
corollary  that  all  his  adventure  was  come  to 
naught  if  there  could  be  no  home  as  its  ultimate 
reward.  His  vague  eye  swam  over  the  wide,  gray 
sea  about  him,  and  to  himself  he  seemed  adrift,  un- 
anchored  and  with  no  chart  of  life. 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

MARY   ELLEN 

LIFTING  and  shimmering  mysteriously  in  the 
midday  sun,  as  though  tantalizing  any  chance  trav- 
eller of  that  wide  land  with  a  prospect  alluring,  yet 
impossible,  the  buildings  of  the  Halfway  station 
now  loomed  large  and  dark,  now  sank  until  they 
seemed  a  few  broken  dots  and  dashes  just  visible 
upon  the  wide  gray  plain.  Yet  soon  the  tall  frame 
of  the  windmill  showed  high  above  the  earth,  most 
notable  landmark  for  many  a  mile,  and  finally  the 
ragged  arms  of  the  corral  posts  appeared  definitely, 
and  then  the  low  peak  of  the  roof  of  the  main  build- 
ing. For  miles  these  seemed  to  grow  no  closer, 
but  the  steady  trot  of  the  little  horses  ate  up  the  dis- 
tance, and  Franklin  found  himself  again  at  the  spot 
with  which  he  was  already  so  well  acquainted  that 
every  detail,  every  low  building  and  gnarled  bit  of 
wood,  was  tabulated  surely  in  his  mind.  The  creak 
of  the  windmill  presently  came  to  his  ears  as  a 
familiar  sound,  but  rasping  and  irritating  on  his 
strong  nerves  as  the  croak  of  the  elder  Fate. 

Franklin  drove  up  to  the  great  dugout  which 

211 


212     THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

made  the  main  building,  in  front  of  which  the 
soil  had  been  worn  bare  and  dusty  by  many  hoofs. 
The  Halfway  House  was  now  a  business  enter- 
prise of  assured  success.  Many  signs  of  pros- 
perity appeared  to  the  eye  accustomed  to  the  crude 
simplicity  of  the  frontier.  These  immigrants  from 
the  far-off  South,  incongruous  and  unfitted  as  they 
had  seemed  in  this  harsh  new  country,  had  ap- 
parently blundered  into  a  material  success  far  be- 
yond that  of  their  average  neighbour.  The  first 
years,  the  hardest  ones  of  their  struggle,  were  past, 
and  the  problem  of  existence  was  solved.  In  those 
days  one  did  not  always  concern  himself  about 
problems  more  intricate  and  more  distant. 

Buford  met  him  in  the  yard,  and  the  two  to- 
gether busied  themselves  in  taking  care  of  the 
team,  the  former  apologizing  that  he  still  had  no 
servant  for  such  work.  "  I  did  have  a  nigger  here 
for  a  while,"  he  said,  "  but  he  turned  out  no  account, 
and  the  first  I  knew  he  went  off  for  a  cow-puncher 
down  the  trail.  I'm  mighty  glad  to  see  you  again, 
captain,  for  it  looked  as  though  you  had  forsaken 
us.  It  certainly  is  a  comfort  to  see  a  gentleman 
like  yourself  once  in  a  while.  We  meet  plenty  of 
cowmen  and  movers,  decent  folk  enough,  but  they 
have  a  lack,  sir,  they  have  a  lack.  I  maintain,  sir, 
that  no  gentleman  can  flourish  without  that  intelli- 
gent social  intercourse  with  his  kind  which  is  as 
much  a  part  of  his  livin',  sir,  as  the  eatin'  of  his  daily 


MARY  ELLEN 


213 


bread.  Now,  as  I  was  sayin'  about  General  Lee, 
sir — but  perhaps  we  would  better  go  in  and  join 
the  ladies.  They  will  be  glad  to  see  you,  and  later 
on  we  can  resume  our  discussion  of  the  war.  I  am 
willing  to  admit,  sir,  that  the  war  is  over,  but  I 
never  did  admit,  and,  sir,  I  contend  yet,  that  Lee 
was  the  greatest  general  that  the  world  ever  saw — 
far  greater  than  Grant,  who  was  in  command  of  re- 
sources infinitely  superior.  Now,  then " 

"  Oh,  uncle,  uncle ! "  cried  a  voice  behind  him. 
"  Have  you  begun  the  war  over  again  so  soon  ? 
You  might  at  least  let  Mr.  Franklin  get  into  the 
house." 

Mary  Ellen  stood  at  the  door  of  the  dugout, 
just  clear  of  the  front,  and  upon  the  second  step 
of  the  stair,  and  her  hand  half  shading  her  eyes. 
The  sun  fell  upon  her  brown  hair,  changing  its 
chestnut  to  a  ruddy  bronze,  vital  and  warm,  with  a 
look  as  though  it  breathed  a  fragrance  of  its  own. 
A  little  vagrant  lock  blew  down  at  the  temple,  and 
Franklin  yearned,  as  he  always  did  when  he  saw 
this  small  truant,  to  stroke  it  back  into  its  place. 
The  sun  and  the  open  air  had  kissed  pink  into  the 
cheek  underneath  the  healthy  brown.  The  curve  of 
the  girl's  chin  was  full  and  firm.  Her  tall  figure  had 
all  the  grace  of  a  normal  being.  Her  face,  sweet 
and  serious,  showed  the  symmetry  of  perfect  and 
well-balanced  faculties.  She  stood,  as  natural  and 
as  beautiful,  as  fit  and  seemly  as  the  antelope  upon 


214     THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

the  hill,  as  well  poised  and  sure,  her  head  as  high 
and  free,  her  hold  upon  life  apparently  as  confident. 
The  vision  of  her  standing  there  caused  Franklin 
to  thrill  and  flush.  Unconsciously  he  drew  near  to 
her,  too  absorbed  to  notice  the  one  visible  token 
of  a  possible  success ;  for,  as  he  approached,  hat  in 
hand,  the  girl  drew  back  as  though  she  feared. 

There  was  something  not  easily  to  be  denied  in 
this  tall  man,  his  figure  still  military  in  its  self-re- 
spect of  carriage,  with  the  broad  shoulders,  the 
compact  trunk,  the  hard  jaw,  and  the  straight  blue 
eye  of  the  man  of  deeds.  The  loose  Western  dress, 
which  so  illy  became  any  but  a  manly  figure,  sat 
carelessly  but  well  upon  him.  He  looked  so  fit 
and  manly,  so  clean  of  heart,  and  so  direct  of  pur- 
pose as  he  came  on  now  in  this  forlorn  hope  that 
Mary  Ellen  felt  a  shiver  of  self-distrust.  She 
stepped  back,  calling  on  all  the  familiar  spirits  of 
the  past.  Her  heart  stopped,  resuming  at  double 
speed.  It  seemed  as  though  a  thrill  of  tingling 
warmth  came  from  somewhere  in  the  air — this 
time,  this  day,  this  hour,  this  man,  so  imperative, 
this  new  land,  this  new  world  into  which  she  had 
come  from  that  of  her  earlier  years !  She  was  yet 
so  young!  Could  there  be  something  unknown, 
some  sweetness  yet  unsounded?  Could  there  be 
that  rest  and  content  which,  strive  as  she  might, 
were  still  missing  from  her  life?  Could  there  be 
this — and  honour? 


MARY   ELLEN 


215 


Mary  Ellen  fled,  and  in  her  room  sat  down, 
staring1  in  a  sudden  panic.  She  needed  to  search 
out  a  certain  faded  picture.  It  was  almost  with  a 
sob  that  she  noted  the  thin  shoulders,  the  unformed 
jaw,  the  eye  betokening  pride  rather  than  vigour, 
the  brow  indicative  of  petulance  as  much  as  stern- 
ness. Mary  Ellen  laid  the  picture  to  her  cheek, 
saying  again  and  again  that  she  loved  it  still.  Poor 
girl,  she  did  not  yet  know  that  this  was  but  the 
maternal  love  of  a  woman's  heart,  pitying,  tender 
and  remembering,  to  be  sure,  but  not  that  love  over 
which  the  morning  stars  sang  together  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  world. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

THE  WAY   OF  A  MAID 

THE  Halfway  House  was  an  oasis  in  the  desert. 
To-day  it  was  an  oasis  and  a  battle  ground.  Frank- 
lin watched  Mary  Ellen  as  she  passed  quietly  about 
the  long,  low  room,  engaged  in  household  duties 
which  she  performed  deftly  as  any  servant.  He 
compared  these  rude  necessities  with  the  associa- 
tions amid  which  he  knew  this  girl  had  been  nur- 
tured, and  the  thought  gave  him  nothing  but  dis- 
satisfaction and  rebellion.  He  longed  to  give  her 
all  the  aid  of  his  own  strength,  and  to  place  her 
again,  as  he  felt  he  some  day  might,  in  something 
of  the  old  ease  and  comfort,  if  not  in  the  same  sur- 
roundings. Yet,  as  he  bethought  himself  of  the 
apparent  hopelessness  of  all  this,  he  set  his  teeth  in 
a  mental  protest  near  akin  to  anger.  He  shifted  in 
his  seat  and  choked  in  his  throat  a  sound  that  was 
half  a  groan.  Presently  he  rose,  and  excusing  him- 
self, went  out  to  join  Buford  at  the  corral. 

"  Come,"  said  the  latter,  "  and  I'll  show  you 
around  over  our  improvements  while  we  are  wait- 
in'  for  a  bite  to  eat.  We  are  goin'  to  have  a  great 
216 


THE   WAY   OF  A   MAID  217 

place  here  some  day.  Besides  our  own  land,  Miss 
Beauchamp  and  our  servant  have  a  quarter-section 
each  adjoinin'  us  on  the  west.  If  ever  this  land 
comes  to  be  worth  anything  at  all,  we  ought  to 
grow  into  something  worth  while." 

"  Yes,"  said  Franklin,  "  it  will  make  you  rich," 
and  as  they  walked  about  he  pointed  out  with  West- 
ern enthusiasm  the  merits  of  the  country  round- 
about. 

The  "  bite  to  eat "  was  in  time  duly  announced 
by  a  loud,  sonorous  note  that  arose  swelling  upon 
the  air.  Aunt  Lucy  appeared  at  the  kitchen  door, 
her  fat  cheeks  distended,  blowing  a  conch  as  though 
this  were  Tidewater  over  again. 

The  long  table  was  spread  in  the  large  room 
of  general  assembly,  this  room  being,  as  has  been 
mentioned,  excavated  from  the  earth,  so  that,  as 
they  sat  at  table,  their  heads  were  perhaps  nearly 
level  with  the  surface  of  the  ground.  The  short 
side  walls,  topped  with  a  heavy  earthen  roof,  made 
of  this  sort  of  abode  a  domicile  rude  and  clumsy 
enough,  but  one  not  lacking  in  a  certain  comfort. 
In  the  winter  it  was  naturally  warm,  and  in  the  sum- 
mer it  was  cool,  the  air,  caught  at  either  end  by  the 
gable  of  the  roof,  passing  through  and  affording 
freshness  to  the  somewhat  cellar-like  interior.  Cut 
off  from  the  main  room  were  three  smaller  rooms, 
including  the  kitchen,  from  which  Aunt  Lucy 

passed  back  and  forth  with  massive  tread.     The 
15 


2i8     THE  GIRL  AT  THE   HALFWAY  HOUSE 

table  was  no  polished  mahogany,  but  was  built  of 
rough  pine  boards,  and  along  it  stood  long  benches 
instead  of  chairs.  For  her  "  white  folks "  Aunt 
Lucy  spread  a  cloth  at  one  end  of  this  long  ta- 
ble, placing  also  in  order  the  few  pieces  of 
china  and  silver  that  had  survived  a  life  of  vicissi- 
tudes. 

"  I  may  be  poor,"  said  Buford,  commenting 
grimly  on  the  rude  appearance  of  the  board,  "  and 
I  reckon  we  always  will  be  poor,  but  when  the  time 
comes  that  I  can't  have  a  silver  spoon  in  my  coffee, 
then  I  want  to  die." 

"  Major ! "  said  Mrs.  Buford  reprovingly  from 
the  head  of  the  table,  where  she  sat  in  state,  "  I  do 
not  like  to  hear  you  speak  in  that  way.  We  are 
in  the  hands  of  the  Lord." 

"  Quite  right,"  said  Buford,  "  and  I  beg  pardon. 
But,  really,  this  country  does  bring  some  changes, 
and  we  ourselves  surely  change  with  it.  No  one 
seems  to  think  of  the  past  out  here." 

"  Don'  you  b'lieve  I  don'  never  think  o'  the 
past ! "  broke  in  a  deep  and  uninvited  voice,  much 
to  Mrs.  Buford's  disquietude.  "  This  yer  sho'hly 
is  a  Ian'  o'  Sodom  an'  Tomorrow.  Dey  ain't  a  sen- 
gle  fiahplace  in  the  hull  country  roun'  yer.  When 
I  sells  mer  Ian'  fer  a  hundred  dollahs,  fust  thing  I'm 
a-goin'  do  is  to  build  me  a  fiahplace  an'  git  me  er 
nice  big  settle  to  putt  in  front  o'  hit,  so'st  I  kin  set 
mer  bread  to  raise  befo'  the  fiah,  like  all  bread  orter 


THE  WAY  OF  A  MAID  219 

be  sot.  How  kin  a  pusson  cook  out  yer — not  to 
say,  cook?" 

"  That  will  do,  Lucy,"  said  Mrs.  Buford. 

"  We  are  demoralized,"  said  Mary  Ellen  hope- 
lessly, "  and  I  resent  it.  I  resent  your  knowing  us 
or  knowing  anything  about  our  lives.  If  you  had 
never  heard  anything  at  all  about  us  it  mightn't 
have  been  so  bad.  We  came  out  here  to  get  away 
from  every  one." 

Franklin  bit  his  lip.  "  Mary  Ellen,  my  child !  " 
cried  Mrs.  Buford. 

"  That's  hardly  fair,"  said  Franklin.  "  We  are 
all  beginners  in  this  land."  Yet  there  was  an  awk- 
ward break  in  the  conversation. 

"  Providence  guides  all  our  ways,"  said  Mrs. 
Buford,  somewhat  irrelevantly,  and  with  her  cus- 
tomary sigh. 

"  Amen !  "  cried  a  hearty  voice  from  the  kitchen. 
"'Scusemeh!" 

"  You  will  oblige  me,  captain,"  said  Buford  as 
they  finally  rose  from  the  table,  "  if  you  will  be  so 
good  as  to  drive  Miss  Beauchamp  over  to  the  claim 
shanty  after  a  while.  I'll  just  ride  along  over  on 
horseback.  I  don't  like  to  put  a  guest  to  work,  but 
really  I  need  a  little  help  about  that  roof.  It  has 
fallen  in  at  one  corner,  and  I  presume  it  ought 
to  be  repaired,  for  the  sake  of  Miss  Beauchamp's 
conscience  when  she  goes  to  the  Land  Office  to 
prove  up." 


220     THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

Franklin  assented  to  this  proposition  with  such 
eagerness  that  he  blushed  as  he  saw  how  evident 
had  been  his  pleasure  at  this  opportunity  for  a  mo- 
ment's speech  alone  with  the  girl  who  sat  so  near 
but  yet  so  unapproachable.  "  I'll  be  delighted," 
said  he. 

Mary  Ellen  said  nothing.  The  pink  spot  in 
her  cheek  was  plainly  deeper.  It  did  not  lessen  as 
she  stood  watching  the  struggle  the  two  men  had  in 
again  hitching  to  the  buggy  the  wild  black  horse. 
Seizing  the  tug  with  one  hand  and  the  singletree 
with  the  other,  Franklin  fairly  swept  the  obdurate 
beast  off  its  balance  as  he  forced  it  to  its  place  at 
the  pole.  His  strength  was  apparent. 

"Are  you  afraid  to  ride  behind  that  horse?" 
asked  he. 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  she  replied  simply,  and  her 
uncle  helped  her  in,  while  Franklin  steadied  the 
team.  Yet  how  Franklin  hated  the  wild  black  horse 
now!  All  the  way  across  the  prairie  during  the 
short  drive  to  the  shanty  the  beast  gave  him  plenty 
to  do  to  keep  it  inside  the  harness,  and  he  had  no 
time  for  a  single  word.  The  girl  sat  silent  at  his 
side,  looking  straight  ahead.  Franklin  felt  her  arm 
brush  his  at  the  jolting  of  the  vehicle  now  and  then. 
Her  hand,  brown  and  shapely,  lay  in  her  lap.  As 
Franklin  gathered  the  slack  of  the  reins,  his  own 
hand  approaching  hers,  it  seemed  to  him  that  an 
actual  emanation,  a  subtle  warmth,  stole  from  her 


THE   WAY   OF   A   MAID  22I 

hand  to  his,  an  unspoken  appeal  from  some  vital 
source.  A  vague,  delicious  sense  of  happiness  came 
over  him.  He  too  fell  quite  silent.  He  guided  the 
horses  as  though  he  saw  neither  them  nor  aught 
else  between  him  and  some  far-off  horizon.  At  the 
shanty  he  helped  her  down.  Ignorant,  he  saw  not 
the  tale  of  a  bosom  heaving,  nor  read  correctly  the 
story  of  the  pink  in  the  cheek.  He  believed  rather 
the  import  of  a  face  turned  away,  and  of  features  set 
in  a  mask  of  repose.  There  had  as  yet  been  no 
word. 

The  claim  shanty  was  indeed  in  some  need  of 
repair.  One  corner  of  the  roof  had  fallen  in,  carry- 
ing with  it  a  portion  of  the  sod  wall  that  made  the 
inclosure,  and  spilling  a  quantity  of  earth  in  the 
bed  customarily  occupied  by  Aunt  Lucy  when  she 
"  resided "  here  in  company  with  her  mistress  in 
their  innocent  process  of  acquiring  one  hundred 
and  sixty  acres  of  land  apiece  by  means  of  a 
double  dwelling  place.  Upon  the  opposite  side, 
protected  by  a  screen,  Franklin  caught  sight 
of  a  corner  of  the  other  bed.  There  were  also 
upon  that  side  of  the  shack  a  little  table,  a  chair, 
and  a  dainty  looking-glass,  with  a  few  other  such 
feminine  appurtenances.  Two  wash-stands,  with 
basins,  went  far  toward  completing  the  remain- 
ing furniture.  It  must  be  admitted  that  there  was 
dust  upon  the  table  and  in  the  basins.  The  house- 
keeper in  Mary  Ellen  apologized  as  she  began  to 


222      THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

clean  them.  "  We  don't  sleep  here  very  often,"  she 
said. 

"  And  aren't  you  afraid  ?  "  said  Franklin. 

"  Not  now.  We  used  to  be  afraid  of  the  coyotes, 
though,  of  course,  they  can't  hurt  us.  Once  uncle 
killed  a  rattlesnake  in  the  shanty.  It  had  crawled 
in  at  the  door.  I  don't  think,  though,  that  you 
could  get  Lucy  to  sleep  here  alone  overnight  for 
all  the  land  out  of  doors." 

In  order  to  make  the  needed  repairs  to  the  roof, 
it  was  necessary  to  lay  up  again  a  part  of  the  broken 
wall,  then  to  hoist  the  fallen  rafters  into  place  prior 
to  covering  the  whole  again  with  a  deep  layer  of 
earth.  Franklin,  standing  upon  a  chair,  put  his 
shoulders  under  the  sagging  beams  and  lifted  them 
and  their  load  of  disarranged  earth  up  to  the  proper 
level  on  the  top  of  the  wall,  while  Buford  built 
under  them  with  sods.  It  was  no  small  weight 
that  he  upheld.  As  he  stood  he  caught  an  upturned 
telltale  glance,  a  look  of  sheer  feminine  admiration 
for  strength,  but  of  this  he  could  not  be  sure,  for  it 
passed  fleetly  as  it  came.  He  saw  only  the  look  of 
unconcern  and  heard  only  the  conventional  word 
of  thanks. 

"  Now,  then,  captain,"  said  Buford,  "  I  reckon 
we  can  call  this  shack  as  good  as  new  again.  It 
ought  to  last  out  what  little  time  it  will  be  needed. 
We  might  go  back  to  the  house  now.  Mightily 
obliged  to  you,  sir,  for  the  help." 


THE  WAY  OF  A  MAID  223 

As  Mary  Ellen  stepped  into  the  buggy  for  the 
return  home  her  face  had  lost  its  pink.  One  of  the 
mysterious  revulsions  of  femininity  had  set  in. 
Suddenly,  it  seemed  to  her,  she  had  caught  herself 
upon  the  brink  of  disaster.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
all  her  will  was  going,  that  in  spite  of  herself  she 
was  tottering  on  toward  some  fascinating  thing 
which  meant  her  harm.  This  tall  and  manly  man, 
she  must  not  yield  to  this  impulse  to  listen  to  him ! 
She  must  not  succumb  to  this  wild  temptation  to 
put  her  head  upon  a  broad  shoulder  and  to  let  it 
lie  there  while  she  wept  and  rested.  To  her  the 
temptation  meant  a  personal  shame.  She  resist- 
ed it  with  all  her  strength.  The  struggle  left 
her  pale  and  very  calm.  At  last  the  way  of  duty 
was  clear.  This  day  should  settle  it  once  for  all. 
There  must  be  no  renewal  of  this  man's  suit.  He 
must  go. 

It  was  Mary  Ellen's  wish  to  be  driven  quickly 
to  the  house,  but  she  reckoned  without  the  man. 
With  a  sudden  crunching  of  the  wheels  the  buggy 
turned  and  spun  swiftly  on,  headed  directly  away 
from  home.  "  I'll  just  take  you  a  turn  around  the 
hill,"  said  Franklin,  "  and  then  we'll  go  in." 

The  "  hill "  was  merely  a  swell  of  land,  broken 
on  its  farther  side  by  a  series  of  coulees  that  headed 
up  to  the  edge  of  the  eminence.  These  deep  wash- 
outs dropped  off  toward  the  level  of  the  little  depres- 
sion known  as  the  Sinks  of  the  White  Woman 


224     THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

River,  offering  a  sharp  drop,  cut  up  by  alternate 
knifelike  ridges  and  deep  gullies. 

"  It  isn't  the  way  home,"  said  Mary  Ellen. 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  said  Franklin.  "  You  are  my 
prisoner.  I  am  going  to  take  you — to  the  end  of 
the  world." 

"  It's  very  noble  of  you  to  take  me  this  way ! " 
said  the  girl  with  scorn.  "  What  will  my  people 
think?" 

"  Let  them  think !  "  exclaimed  Franklin  desper- 
ately. "  It's  my  only  chance.  Let  them  think  I  am 
offering  you  myself  once  more — my  love — all  of  me, 
and  that  I  mean  it  now  a  thousand  times  more  than 
I  ever  did  before.  I  can't  do  without  you!  It's 
right  for  us  both.  You  deserve  a  better  life  than 
this.  You,  a  Beauchamp,  of  the  old  Virginia  Beau- 
champs — good  God !  It  breaks  my  heart !  " 

"  You  have  answered  yourself,  sir,"  said  Mary 
Ellen,  her  voice  not  steady  as  she  wished. 

"  You  mean " 

"  I  am  a  Beauchamp,  of  the  old  Virginia  Beau- 
champs.  I  live  out  here  on  the  prairies,  far  from 
home,  but  I  am  a  Beauchamp  of  old  Virginia." 

"And  then?" 

"  And  the  Beauchamps  kept  their  promises, 
women  and  men — they  always  kept  them.  They  al- 
ways will.  While  there  is  one  of  them  left  alive, 
man  or  woman,  that  one  will  keep  the  Beauchamp 
promise,  whatever  that  has  been." 


THE  WAY  OF  A   MAID  22$ 

"  I  know,"  said  Franklin  gently,  "  I  would  rely 
on  your  word  forever.  I  would  risk  my  life  and 
my  honour  in  your  hands.  I  would  believe  in  you 
all  my  life.  Can't  you  do  as  much  for  me  ?  There 
is  no  stain  on  my  name.  I  will  love  you  till  the 
end  of  the  world.  Child — you  don't  know " 

"  I  know  this,  and  you  have  heard  me  say  it  be- 
fore, Mr.  Franklin;  my  promise  was  given  long 
ago.  You  tell  me  that  you  can  never  love  any  one 
else." 

"  How  could  I,  having  seen  you  ?  I  will  never 
degrade  your  memory  by  loving  any  one  else.  You 
may  at  least  rely  on  that." 

"  Would  you  expect  me  ever  to  love  any  one 
else  if  I  had  promised  to  love  you  ?  " 

"  You  would  not.  You  would  keep  your  prom- 
ise. I  should  trust  you  with  my  life." 

"  Ah,  then,  you  have  your  answer !  You  ex- 
pect me  to  keep  my  promises  to  you,  but  to  no  one 
else.  Is  that  the  honourable  thing?  Now,  listen 
to  me,  Mr.  Franklin.  I  shall  keep  my  promise  as  a 
Beauchamp  should — as  a  Beauchamp  shall.  I  have 
told  you  long  ago  what  that  promise  was.  I  prom- 
ised to  love,  to  marry  him — Mr.  Henry  Fairfax — 
years  ago.  I  promised  never  to  love  any  one  else 
so  long  as  I  lived.  He — he's  keeping  his  promise 
now — back  there — in  old  Virginia,  now.  How 
would  I  be  keeping  mine — how  am  I  keeping 
mine,  now,  even  listening  to  you  so  long?  Take 

16 


226     THE   GIRL   AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

me  back ;  take  me  home.  I'm  going  to — going  to 
keep  my  promise,  sir !  I'm  going  to  keep  it !  " 

Franklin's  heart  stood  cold.  "  You're  going 
to  keep  your  promise,"  he  said  slowly  and  coldly. 
"  You're  going  to  keep  a  girl's  promise,  from  which 
death  released  you  years  ago — released  you  hon- 
ourably. You  were  too  young  then  to  know  what 
you  were  doing — you  didn't  know  what  love  could 
mean — yet  you  are  released  from  that  promise. 
And  now,  for  the  sake  of  a  mere  sentiment,  you  are 
going  to  ruin  my  life  for  me,  and  you're  going  to 
ruin  your  own  life,  throw  it  away,  all  alone  out 
here,  with  nothing  about  you  such  as  you  ought 
to  have.  And  you  call  that  honour  ?  " 

"  Well,  then,  call  it  choice ! "  said  Mary  Ellen, 
with  what  she  took  to  be  a  noble  lie  upon  her  lips. 
"It  is  ended!" 

Franklin  sat  cold  and  dumb  at  this,  all  the  world 
seeming  to  him  to  have  gone  quite  blank.  He 
could  not  at  first  grasp  this  sentence  in  its  full 
effect,  it  meant  so  much  to  him.  He  shivered,  and 
a  sigh  broke  from  him  as  from  one  hurt  deep  and 
knowing  that  his  hurt  is  fatal.  Yet,  after  his 
fashion,  he  fought  mute,  struggling  for  some 
time  before  he  dared  trust  his  voice  or  his 
emotions. 

"  Very  well,"  he  said.  "  I'll  not  crawl— not  for 
any  woman  on  earth !  It's  over.  I'm  sorry.  Dear 
little  woman,  I  wanted  to  be  your  friend.  I  wanted 


THE  WAY  OF  A  MAID  227 

to  take  care  of  you.  I  wanted  to  love  you  and  to 
see  if  I  couldn't  make  a  future  for  us  both." 

"  My  future  is  done.  Leave  me.  Find  some 
one  else  to  love." 

"  Thank  you.  You  do  indeed  value  me  very 
high ! "  he  replied,  setting  his  jaws  hard  together. 

"  They  tell  me  men  love  the  nearest  woman 
always.  I  was  the  only  one " 

"  Yes,  you  were  the  only  one,"  said  Franklin 
slowly,  "  and  you  always  will  be  the  only  one. 
Good-bye." 

It  seemed  to  him  he  heard  a  breath,  a  whisper, 
a  soft  word  that  said  "  good-bye."  It  had  a  tender- 
ness that  set  a  lump  in  his  throat,  but  it  was  fol- 
lowed almost  at  once  with  a  calmer  commonplace. 
"We  must  go  back,"  said  Mary  Ellen.  "It  is 
growing  dark." 

Franklin  wheeled  the  team  sharply  about  to- 
ward the  house,  which  was  indeed  becoming  in- 
distinct in  the  falling  twilight.  As  the  vehicle 
turned  about,  the  crunching  of  the  wheels  started 
a  great  gray  prairie  owl,  which  rose  almost  be- 
neath the  horses'  noses  and  flapped  slowly  off.  The 
apparition  set  the  wild  black  horse  into  a  sudden 
simulation  of  terror,  as  though  he  had  never  before 
seen  an  owl  upon  the  prairies.  Rearing  and  plung- 
ing, he  tore  loose  the  hook  of  one  of  the  single- 
trees, and  in  a  flash  stood  half  free,  at  right  angles 
now  to  the  vehicle  instead  of  at  its  front,  and  strug- 


228      THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

gling  to  break  loose  from  the  neck-yoke.  At  the 
moment  they  were  crossing  just  along  the  head  of 
one  of  the  coulees,  and  the  struggles  of  the  horse, 
which  was  upon  the  side  next  to  the  gully,  rapidly 
dragged  his  mate  down  also.  In  a  flash  Franklin 
saw  that  he  could  not  get  the  team  back  upon  the 
rim,  and  knew  that  he  was  confronted  with  an 
ugly  accident.  He  chose  the  only  possible  course, 
but  handled  the  situation  in  the  best  possible  way. 
With  a  sharp  cut  of  the  whip  he  drove  the  attached 
horse  down  upon  the  one  that  was  half  free,  and 
started  the  two  off  at  a  wild  race  down  the  steep 
coulee,  into  what  seemed  sheer  blackness  and  imme- 
diate disaster.  The  light  vehicle  bounded  up  and 
down  and  from  side  to  side  as  the  wheels  caught 
the  successive  inequalities  of  the  rude  descent, 
and  at  every  instant  it  seemed  it  must  surely  be 
overthrown.  Yet  the  weight  of  the  buggy  thrust 
the  pole  so  strongly  forward  that  it  straightened 
out  the  free  horse  by  the  neck  and  forced  him 
onward.  In  some  way,  stumbling  and  bounding 
and  lurching,  both  horses  and  vehicle  kept  up- 
right all  the  way  down  the  steep  descent,  a  thing 
which  to  Franklin  later  seemed  fairly  miraculous. 
At  the  very  foot  of  the  pitch  the  black  horse  fell, 
the  buggy  running  full  upon  him  as  he  lay  lash- 
ing out.  From  this  confusion,  in  some  way  never 
quite  plain  to  himself,  Franklin  caught  the  girl 
out  in  his  arms,  and  the  next  moment  was  at 


THE  WAY   OF   A   MAID  229 

the  head  of  the  struggling  horses.  And  so  good 
had  been  his  training  at  such  matters  that  it  was 
not  without  method  that  he  proceeded  to  quiet 
the  team  and  to  set  again  in  partial  order  the 
wreck  that  had  been  created  in  the  gear.  The 
end  of  the  damaged  singletree  he  re-enforced  with 
his  handkerchief.  In  time  he  had  the  team  again 
in  harness,  and  at  the  bottom  of  the  coulee,  where 
the  ground  sloped  easily  down  into  the  open  valley, 
whence  they  might  emerge  at  the  lower  level  of  the 
prairie  round  about.  He  led  the  team  for  a  dis- 
tance down  this  floor  of  the  coulee,  until  he  could 
see  the  better  going  in  the  improving  light  which 
greeted  them  as  they  came  out  from  the  gullylike 
defile.  Cursing  his  ill  fortune,  and  wretched  at 
the  thought  of  the  danger  and  discomfort  he  had 
brought  upon  the  very  one  whom  he  would  most 
gladly  have  shielded,  Franklin  said  not  a  word 
from  the  beginning  of  the  mad  dash  down  the 
coulee  until  he  got  the  horses  again  into  harness. 
He  did  not  like  to  admit  to  his  companion  how 
great  had  been  the  actual  danger  just  incurred, 
though  fortunately  escaped.  The  girl  was  as  silent 
as  himself.  She  had  not  uttered  a  cry  during  the 
time  of  greatest  risk,  though  once  she  laid  a  hand 
upon  his  arm.  Franklin  was  humiliated  and 
ashamed,  as  a  man  always  is  over  an  accident. 

"  Oh,  it's  no  good  saying  I'm  sorry,"  he  broke 
out  at  last.     "  It  was  my  fault,  letting  you  ride 


230     THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY  HOUSE 

behind  that  brute.  Thank  God,  you're  not  hurt! 
And  I'm  only  too  glad  it  wasn't  worse.  I'm  always 
doing  some  unfortunate,  ignoble  thing.  I  want  to 
take  care  of  you  and  make  you  happy,  and  I  would 
begin  by  putting  your  very  life  in  danger." 

"  It  wasn't  ignoble,"  said  the  girl,  and  again  he 
felt  her  hand  upon  his  arm.  "  It  was  grand.  You 
went  straight,  and  you  brought  us  through.  I'm 
not  hurt.  I  was  frightened,  but  I  am  not  hurt." 

"  You've  pluck,"  said  Franklin.  Then,  scorn- 
ing to  urge  anything  further  of  his  suit  at  this 
time  of  her  disadvantage,  though  feeling  a  strange 
new  sense  of  nearness  to  her,  now  that  they  had 
seen  this  distress  in  common,  he  drove  home  rap- 
idly as  he  might  through  the  gathering  dusk,  anx- 
ious now  only  for  her  comfort.  At  the  house  he 
lifted  her  from  the  buggy,  and  as  he  did  so  kissed 
her  cheek.  "  Dear  little  woman,"  he  whispered, 
"  good-bye."  Again  he  doubted  whether  he  had 
heard  or  not  the  soft  whisper  of  a  faint  "  Good- 
bye!" 

"  But  you  must  come  in,"  she  said. 

"  No,  I  must  go.  Make  my  excuses,"  he  said. 
"  Good-bye !  "  The  horses  sprang  sharply  forward. 
He  was  gone. 

The  roll  of  the  wheels  and  the  rhythmic  hoof- 
beats  rapidly  lessened  to  the  ear  as  Franklin  drove 
on  into  the  blackening  night.  In  her  own  little 
room  Mary  Ellen  sat,  her  face  where  it  might  have 


THE  WAY  OF  A  MAID  231 

been  seen  in  profile  had  there  been  a  light  or  had 
the  distant  driver  looked  round  to  see.  Mary  Ellen 
listened — listened  until  she  could  hear  hoof  and 
wheel  no  more.  Then  she  cast  herself  upon  the  bed, 
face  downward,  and  lay  motionless  and  silent. 
Upon  the  little  dresser  lay  a  faded  photograph, 
fallen  forward  also  upon  its  face,  lying  unnoticed 
and  apparently  forgot. 


CHAPTER   XXV 

BILL   WATSON 

THE  sheriff  of  Ellisville  sat  in  his  office  oiling 
the  machinery  of  the  law ;  which  is  to  say,  cleaning 
his  revolver.  There  was  not  yet  any  courthouse. 
The  sheriff  was  the  law.  Twelve  new  mounds  on 
the  hillside  back  of  the  Cottage  Hotel  showed  how 
faithfully  he  had  executed  his  duties  as  judge  and 
jury  since  he  had  taken  up  his  office  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  "  cow  boom  "  of  Ellisville.  His  right 
hand  had  found  somewhat  to  do,  and  he  had  done  it 
with  his  might. 

Ellisville  was  near  the  zenith  of  its  bad  eminence. 
The  entire  country  had  gone  broad-horn.  Money 
being  free,  whisky  was  not  less  so.  The  bar  of 
the  Cottage  was  lined  perpetually.  Wild  men  from 
the  range  rode  their  horses  up  the  steps  and  into 
the  bar-room,  demanding  to  be  served  as  they  sat 
in  the  saddle,  as  gentlemen  should.  Glass  was  too 
tempting  to  the  six-shooters  of  these  enthusiasts, 
and  the  barkeeper  begged  the  question  by  stowing 
away  the  fragments  of  his  mirror  and  keeping  most 
of  his  bottles  out  of  sight.  More  than  once  he  was 
232 


BILL  WATSON  233 

asked  to  hold  up  a  bottle  of  whisky  so  that  some 
cow-puncher  might  prove  his  skill  by  shooting  the 
neck  off  from  the  flask.  The  bartender  was  taci- 
turn and  at  times  glum,  but  his  face  was  the  only 
one  at  the  bar  that  showed  any  irritation  or  sad- 
ness. This  railroad  town  was  a  bright,  new  thing 
for  the  horsemen  of  the  trail — a  very  joyous 
thing.  No  funeral  could  check  their  hilarity;  no 
whisky  could  daunt  their  throats,  long  seared  with 
alkali. 

It  was  notorious  that  after  the  civil  war  human 
life  was  held  very  cheap  all  over  America,  it  having 
been  seen  how  small  a  thing  is  a  man,  how  little 
missed  may  be  a  million  men  taken  bodily  from  the 
population.  Nowhere  was  life  cheaper  than  on  the 
frontier,  and  at  no  place  on  that  frontier  of  less  value 
than  at  this  wicked  little  city.  Theft  was  unknown, 
nor  was  murder  recognised  by  that  name,  always 
being  referred  to  as  a  "  killing."  Of  these  "  kill- 
ings "  there  were  very  many. 

The  sheriff  of  Ellisville  looked  thoughtful  as 
he  tested  the  machinery  of  the  law.  He  had  a  war- 
rant for  a  new  bad  man  who  had  come  up  from  the 
Indian  nations,  and  who  had  celebrated  his  first 
day  in  town  by  shooting  two  men  who  declined 
to  get  off  the  sidewalk,  so  that  he  could  ride  his 
horse  more  comfortably  there.  The  sheriff  left  the 
warrant  on  the  table,  as  was  his  custom,  this  paper 
being  usually  submitted  with  the  corpse  at  the  in- 


234     THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

quest.  The  sheriff  hummed  a  tune  as  he  cleaned 
his  revolver.  He  was  the  law. 

Bill  Watson,  the  sheriff  of  Ellisville,  was  a  heav- 
ily built  man,  sandy-haired,  red-mustached,  and 
solid.  His  legs  were  bowed  and  his  carriage  awk- 
ward. He  had  thick,  clumsy-looking  fingers,  whose 
appearance  belied  their  deftness.  Bill  Watson  had 
gone  through  the  Quantrell  raid  in  his  time.  It 
was  nothing  to  him  when  he  was  to  be  killed. 
Such  a  man  is  careful  in  his  shooting,  because  he  is 
careless  of  being  shot,  having  therefore  a  vast  ad- 
vantage over  the  desperado  of  two  or  three  victims, 
who  does  not  yet  accept  the  fact  that  his  own  days 
are  numbered.  The  only  trouble  in  regard  to  this 
new  bad  man  from  below  was  that  his  mental 
attitude  on  this  point  was  much  the  same  as 
that  of  Sheriff  Bill  Watson.  Therefore  the  sheriff 
was.  extremely  careful  about  the  oiling  of  the 
cylinder. 

The  great  cattle  drive  was  at  its  height.  Buyers 
from  the  territorial  ranges  of  the  North  and  North- 
west, now  just  beginning  to  open  up,  bid  in  market 
against  the  men  from  the  markets  of  the  East. 
Prices  advanced  rapidly.  Men  carried  thousands 
of  dollars  in  the  pockets  of  their  greasy  "  chaps." 
Silver  was  no  longer  counted.  There  were  hard- 
ware stores  which  sold  guns  and  harness-shops 
which  sold  saddles.  There  were  twoscore  saloons 
which  held  overflow  meetings,  accommodating 


BILL  WATSON 


235 


those  whom  the  Cottage  bar  would  not  hold. 
There  were  three  barber-shops,  to  which  went  only 
the  very  weary.  The  corral  of  the  Cottage,  where 
the  drovers  stopped,  was  large  enough  to  hold  two 
hundred  horses,  with  comfortable  space  for  roping, 
and  the  snubbing  post  was  grooved  with  the  wear 
of  many  ropes.  The  central  street  needed  no  pav- 
ing, for  it  was  worn  hard  as  flint.  Long  rows  of 
cattle  chutes  lined  the  railroad  yards,  whence  came 
continuous  din  of  bellowing,  crowding,  maddened 
cattle,  handled  with  ease  and  a  certain  exultation 
by  men  who  had  studied  nothing  but  this  thing. 
Horsemen  clattered  up  and  down  the  street  day 
and  night — riding,  whether  drunk  or  sober,  with 
the  incomparable  confidence  of  the  greatest  horse 
country  the  world  has  ever  known.  Everywhere 
was  the  bustle  of  a  unique  commerce,  mingled 
with  a  colossal  joy  of  life.  The  smokes  from  the 
dugouts  and  shacks  now  began  to  grow  still  more 
numerous  in  the  region  round  about,  but  there  were 
not  many  homes,  because  there  were  not  many 
women.  For  this  reason  men  always  kill  each 
other  very  much  more  gladly  and  regularly  than 
they  do  in  countries  where  there  are  many  women, 
it  appearing  to  them,  perhaps,  that  in  a  womanless 
country  life  is  not  worth  the  living.  A  few  "  hay 
ranches,"  a  few  fields  even  of  "  sod  corn,"  now  be- 
gan to  show  here  and  there,  index  of  a  time  to  come, 
but  for  the  most  part  this  was  yet  a  land  of  one 


236     THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

sex  and  one  occupation.  The  cattle  trade  monop- 
olized the  scene.  The  heaps  of  buffalo  bones  were 
now  neglected.  The  long-horned  cattle  of  the 
white  men  were  coming  in  to  take  the  place  of  the 
curved-horned  cattle  of  the  Indians.  The  curtain 
of  the  cattle  drama  of  the  West  was  now  rung 
up  full. 

The  sheriff  finished  the  cleaning  of  his  six- 
shooter  and  tossed  the  oiled  rag  into  the  drawer  of 
the  table  where  he  kept  the  warrants.  He  slipped 
the  heavy  weapon  into  the  scabbard  at  his  right  leg 
and  saw  that  the  string  held  the  scabbard  firmly  to 
his  trouser-leg,  so  that  he  might  draw  the  gun 
smoothly  and  without  hindrance  from  its  sheath. 
He  knew  that  the  new  bad  man  wore  two  guns,  each 
adjusted  in  a  similar  manner ;  but  it  was  always  Bill 
Watson's  contention  (while  he  was  alive)  that  a 
man  with  one  gun  was  as  good  as  a  man  with  two. 
Sheriff  Watson  made  no  claim  to  being  a  two- 
handed  shot.  He  was  a  simple,  unpretentious 
man;  not  a  heroic  figure  as  he  stood,  his  weight 
resting  on  the  sides  of  his  feet,  looking  out  of  the 
window  down  the  long  and  wind-swept  street  of 
Ellisville. 

Gradually  the  gaze  of  the  sheriff  focused,  be- 
coming occupied  with  the  figure  of  a  horseman 
whose  steady  riding  seemed  to  have  a  purpose  other 
than  that  of  merely  showing  his  joy  in  living  and 
riding.  This  rider  passed  other  riders  without 


BILL  WATSON  237 

pausing.  He  came  up  the  street  at  a  gallop  until 
opposite  the  office  door,  where  he  jerked  up  his 
horse  sharply  and  sprang  from  the  saddle.  As  he 
came  into  the  room  he  pulled  off  his  hat  and 
mopped  his  face  as  far  as  he  could  reach  with  the 
corner  of  his  neckerchief. 

"  Mornin',  Bill,"  he  said. 

"  Mornin',  Curly,"  said  the  sheriff  pleasantly. 
"  Lookin'  for  a  doctor  ?  You're  ridin'  perty 
fast." 

"  Nope,"  said  Curly.  "  Reckon  it's  a  shade  too 
late  fer  a  doctor." 

The  sheriff  was  gravely  silent.  After  a  while 
he  said,  quietly : 

"Any  trouble?" 

"  Yep.     Plenty." 

"Who?" 

"Why,  it's  Cal  Greathouse.  You  know  Cal. 
This  is  his  second  drive.  His  cows  is  down  on  the 
Rattlesnake  bottoms  now.  He  was  camped  there 
two  weeks,  not  fur  from  my  place.  Last  week  he 
goes  off  west  a  ways,  a-lookin'  fer  some  winter 
range  that  won't  be  so  crowded.  He  goes  alone. 
Now,  to-day  his  horse  comes  back,  draggin'  his 
lariat.  We  'lowed  we  better  come  tell  you.  O' 
course,  they  ain't  no  horse  gettin'  away  f'm  Cal 
Greathouse,  not  if  he's  alive." 

The  sheriff  was  silent  for  some  time,  looking  at 
his  visitor  straight  with  his  oxlike  eyes.  "  Did 


238      THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

Cal  have  much  money  with  him  ? "  he  asked, 
finally. 

"  Not  so  awful  much,  near's  the  boys  can  tell. 
Mebbe  a  few  hundred,  fer  spendin'  money,  like." 

"  Had  he  had  any  furse  with  ary  feller  down  in 
there  lately?" 

"  Nope,  not  that  any  one  knows  of.  He  just 
done  went  off  over  the  range,  an'  fanned  out,  seems 
like,  without  no  special  reason." 

The  sheriff  again  fell  into  thought,  slowly  chew- 
ing at  a  splinter.  "  I'll  tell  you,"  he  said  at  length, 
slowly,  "  I  kain't  very  well  git  away  right  now. 
You  go  over  an'  git  Cap  Franklin.  He's  a  good 
man.  Pick  up  somebody  else  you  want  to  go 
along  with  you,  an'  then  you  start  out  on  Cal's  trail, 
near  as  you  can  git  at  it.  You  better  take  along 

that  d d  Greaser  o'  yourn,  that  big  Juan,  fer  he 

kin  run  trail  like  a  houn'.  You  stop  at  all  the 
outfits  you  come  to,  fer  say  fifty  miles.  Don't  do 
nothin'  more'n  ask,  an'  then  go  on.  If  you  come  to 
a  outfit  that  hain't  seen  him,  an*  then  another  outfit 
furder  on  that  has  seen  him,  you  remember  the 
one  that  hain't.  If  you  don't  git  no  track  in  fifty 
mile,  swing  around  to  the  southeast,  an*  cut  the 
main  drive  trail  an'  see  if  you  hear  of  anything  that- 
away.  If  you  don't  git  no  trace  by  that,  you  better 
come  on  back  in  an'  tell  me,  an'  then  we'll  see  what 
to  do  about  it  furder." 

"All  right,  Bill,"  said  Curly,  rising  and  taking 


BILL  WATSON 


239 


a  chew  of  tobacco,  in  which  the  sheriff  joined  him. 
"  All  right.  You  got  any  papers  fer  us  to  take 
along?" 

"  Papers  ?  "     said   the   sheriff   contemptuously. 
"Papers?     Hell!" 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

IKE   ANDERSON 

IKE  ANDERSON  was  drunk — calmly,  magnifi- 
cently, satisfactorily  drunk.  It  had  taken  time,  but 
it  was  a  fact  accomplished.  The  actual  state  of 
affairs  was  best  known  to  Ike  Anderson  himself, 
and  not  obvious  to  the  passer-by.  Ike  Anderson's 
gaze  might  have  been  hard,  but  it  was  direct.  His 
walk  was  perfectly  decorous  and  straight,  his  brain 
perfectly  clear,  his  hand  perfectly  steady.  Only, 
somewhere  deep  down  in  his  mind  there  burned 
some  little,  still,  blue  flame  of  devilishness,  which 
left  Ike  Anderson  not  a  human  being,  but  a  skilful, 
logical,  and  murderous  animal. 

"This,"  said  Ike  Anderson  to  himself  all  the 
time,  "  this  is  little  Ike  Anderson,  a  little  boy,  play- 
ing. I  can  see  the  green  fields,  the  pleasant  mead- 
ows, the  little  brook  that  crossed  them.  I  remem- 
ber my  mother  gave  me  bread  and  milk  for  my  sup- 
per, always.  My  sister  washed  my  bare  feet,  when 
I  was  a  little,  little  boy."  He  paused  and  leaned 
one  hand  against  a  porch  post,  thinking.  "  A  little, 
little  boy,"  he  repeated  to  himself. 
240 


IKE  ANDERSON  241 

"  No,  it  isn't,"  he  thought.  "  It's  Ike  Anderson, 
growing  up.  He's  playing  tag.  The  boy  tripped 
him  and  laughed  at  him,  and  Ike  Anderson  got  out 
his  knife."  He  cast  a  red  eye  about  him. 

"  No,  it  isn't,"  he  thought.  "  It's  Ike  Ander- 
son, with  the  people  chasing  him.  And  the  shot- 
gun. Ike's  growing  up  faster,  growing  right  along. 
They  all  want  him,  but  they  don't  get  him.  One, 
two,  three,  five,  nine,  eight,  seven — I  could  count 
them  all  once.  Ike  Anderson.  No  mother.  No 
sweetheart.  No  home.  Moving,  moving.  But 
they  never  scared  him  yet — Ike  Anderson.  ...  I 
never  took  any  cattle !  " 

An  impulse  to  walk  seized  him,  and  he  did  so, 
quietly,  steadily,  until  he  met  a  stranger,  a  man 
whose  clothing  bespoke  his  residence  in  another 
region. 

"  Good  morning,  gentle  sir,"  said  Ike. 

"  Good  morning,  friend,"  said  the  other,  smiling. 

"  Gentle  sir,"  said  Ike,  "  just  lemme  look  at  your 
watch  a  minute,  won't  you,  please  ?  " 

Laughingly  the  stranger  complied,  suspecting 
only  that  his  odd  accoster  might  have  tarried  too 
long  over  his  cups.  Ike  took  the  watch  in  his  hand, 
looked  at  it  gravely  for  a  moment,  then  gave  it  a 
jerk  that  broke  the  chain,  and  dropped  it  into  his 
own  pocket. 

"  I  like  it,"  said  he  simply,  and  passed  on.  The 
stranger  followed,  about  to  use  violence,  but  caught 


242     THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

sight  of  a  white-faced  man,  who  through  a  window 
vehemently  beckoned  him  to  pause. 

Ike  Anderson  stepped  into  a  saloon  and  took  a 
straw  from  a  glass  standing  on  the  bar,  exercising 
an  exact  and  critical  taste  in  its  selection.  "  I'm 
very  thirsty,"  he  remarked  plaintively.  Saying 
which,  he  shot  a  hole  in  a  barrel  of  whisky,  inserted 
the  straw,  and  drank  lingeringly. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said  softly,  and  shot  the  glass 
of  straws  off  the  counter.  "  Thank  you.  Not  after 
me."  The  whisky  ran  out  over  the  floor,  out  of  the 
door,  over  the  path  and  into  the  road,  but  no  one 
raised  a  voice  in  rebuke. 

The  blue  flame  burned  a  trifle  higher  in  Ike 
Anderson's  brain.  He  was  growing  very  much  in- 
toxicated, and  therefore  very  quiet  and  very  sober- 
looking.  He  did  not  yell  and  flourish  his  revolvers, 
but  walked  along  decently,  engaged  in  thought. 
He  was  a  sandy-complexioned  man,  not  over  five 
feet  six  inches  in  height.  His  long  front  teeth  pro- 
jected very  much,  giving  him  a  strange  look.  His 
chin  was  not  heavy  and  square,  but  pointed,  and  his 
jaws  were  narrow.  His  eye  was  said  by  some  to 
have  been  hazel  when  he  was  sober,  though  others 
said  it  was  blue,  or  gray.  No  one  had  ever  looked 
into  it  carefully  enough  to  tell  its  colour  when  Ike 
Anderson  was  drunk,  as  he  was  to-day. 

Ike  Anderson  passed  by  the  front  of  the  Cottage 
Hotel.  A  negro  boy,  who  worked  about  the  place, 


IKE  ANDERSON 


243 


was  sweeping  idly  at  the  porch  door,  shuffling  lazily 
about  at  his  employment.  Ike  paused  and  looked 
amiably  at  him  for  some  moments. 

"  Good  morning,  coloured  scion,"  he  said  pleas- 
antly. 

"  Mawnin',  boss,"  said  the  negro,  grinning 
widely. 

"  Coloured  scion,"  said  Ike,  "  hereafter — to 
oblige  me — would  you  mind  whoopin'  it  up  with 
yore  broom  a  leetle  faster  ?  " 

The  negro  scowled  and  muttered,  and  the  next 
moment  sprang  sprawling  forward  with  a  scream. 
Ike  had  shot  off  the  heel  of  his  shoe,  in  the  process 
not  sparing  all  of  the  foot.  The  negro  went  ashy 
pale,  and  believed  himself  mortally  hurt,  but  was 
restored  by  the  icy  tones  of  his  visitor,  who  said, 
evenly  and  calmly : 

"  Coloured  scion,  please  go  over  into  that  far 
corner  and  begin  to  sweep  there,  and  then  come  on 
over  the  rest  of  the  flo'.  Now,  sweep !  " 

The  negro  swept  as  he  had  never  swept  before. 
Twice  a  bullet  cut  the  floor  at  his  feet,  and  at  last 
the  stick  of  the  broom  was  shattered  in  his  hand. 
"  Coloured  scion,"  said  Ike  Anderson,  as  though  in 
surprise,  "  yore  broom  is  damaged.  Kneel  down 
and  pray  for  another."  The  negro  knelt  and  surely 
prayed. 

On  all  sides  swept  the  wide  and  empty  streets. 
It  was  Ike  Anderson's  town.  A  red  film  seemed  to 


244 


THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 


his  gaze  to  come  over  the  face  of  things.  He 
slipped  his  revolver  back  into  the  scabbard  and 
paused  again  to  think.  A  quiet  footstep  sounded 
on  the  walk  behind  him,  and  he  wheeled,  still 
puzzled  with  the  red  film  and  the  mental  prob- 
lem. 

The  sheriff  stood  quietly  facing  him,  with  his 
thumbs  resting  lightly  in  his  belt.  He  had  not 
drawn  his  own  revolver.  He  was  chewing  a 
splinter.  "  Ike,"  said  he,  "  throw  up  your  hands !  " 

The  nerves  of  some  men  act  more  quickly  than 
those  of  others,  and  such  men  make  the  most  dan- 
gerous pistol  shots,  when  they  have  good  digestion 
and  long  practice  at  the  rapid  drawing  of  the  re- 
volver, an  art  at  that  time  much  cultivated.  Ike 
Anderson's  mind  and  nerves  and  muscles  were  al- 
ways lightning-like  in  the  instantaneous  rapidity  of 
their  action.  The  eye  could  scarce  have  followed 
the  movement  by  which  the  revolver  leaped  to  a 
level  from  his  right-hand  scabbard.  He  had  for- 
gotten, in  his  moment  of  study,  that  with  this  six- 
shooter  he  had  fired  once  at  the  whisky  barrel,  once 
at  the  glass  of  straws,  once  at  the  negro's  heel,  twice 
at  the  floor,  and  once  at  the  broomstick.  The  click 
on  the  empty  shell  was  heard  clearly  at  the  hotel  bar, 
distinctly  ahead  of  the  double  report  that  followed. 
For,  such  was  the  sharpness  of  this  man's  mental 
and  muscular  action,  he  had  dropped  the  empty 
revolver  from  his  right  hand  and  drawn  the  other 


IKE  ANDERSON  24$ 

with  his  left  hand  in  time  to  meet  the  fire  of  the 
sheriff. 

The  left  arm  of  the  sheriff  dropped.  The  whole 
body  of  Ike  Anderson,  shot  low  through  the  trunk, 
as  was  the  sheriff's  invariable  custom,  melted  down 
and  sank  into  a  sitting  posture,  leaning  against  the 
edge  of  the  stoop.  The  sheriff  with  a  leap  sprang 
behind  the  fallen  man,  not  firing  again.  Ike  An- 
derson, with  a  black  film  now  come  upon  his  eyes, 
raised  his  revolver  and  fired  once,  twice,  three  times, 
four  times,  five  times,  tapping  the  space  in  front 
of  him  regularly  and  carefully  with  his  fire.  Then 
he  sank  back  wearily  into  the  sheriff's  arms. 

"  All  right,  mammy !  "  remarked  Ike  Anderson, 
somewhat  irrelevantly. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE   BODY    OF   THE   CRIME 

HOUR  after  hour,  in  the  heat  of  the  day  or  the 
cool  of  the  evening,  the  giant  Mexican  strode  on 
by  the  side  of  the  two  horsemen,  sometimes  trot- 
ting like  a  dog,  more  often  walking  with  a  sham- 
bling, wide-reaching  step,  tireless  as  any  wild  ani- 
mal. His  feet,  seamed  and  parched  into  the  sem- 
blance rather  of  horn  than  of  flesh  and  bone,  were 
quite  bare,  though  now  it  was  a  time  of  year  when 
the  nights  at  least  were  very  cool  and  when  freezing 
weather  might  come  at  any  time.  He  was  clad 
lightly  as  ever,  in  torn  cotton  garb,  and  carried  no 
bedding  save  a  narrow  strip  of  native  woollen  fabric, 
woven  of  undyed  wool  and  so  loose  of  texture  that 
one  might  thrust  a  finger  through  at  any  point  of 
its  scant  extent.  He  bore  no  weapon  save  the 
huge  knife  swinging  at  his  belt.  Fastened  to  the 
same  girdle  was  a  hide  bag  or  pouch,  half  full  of 
parched  corn,  rudely  pounded.  Expressionless, 
mute,  untiring,  the  colossal  figure  strode  along, 
like  some  primordial  creature  in  whom  a  human 
soul  had  not  yet  found  home.  Yet,  with  an  intelli- 
246 


THE  BODY  OF  THE  CRIME  247 

gence  and  confidence  which  was  more  than  human, 
he  ran  without  hesitation  the  trail  of  the  unshod 
horse  across  this  wide,  hard  plain,  where  even  the 
eye  of  the  cowboy  could  rarely  discern  it.  Now 
and  then  the  print  of  the  hoof  might  show  in  the 
soft  earth  of  some  prairie-dog  burrow;  then  per- 
haps for  an  hour  Juan  would  walk  on,  his  eye  fixed 
apparently  upon  some  far-off  point  of  the  horizon  as 
upon  the  ground,  until  finally  they  would  note  the 
same  hoof-print  again  and  know  again  that  the  in- 
stinct of  the  wild  guide  had  not  failed. 

The  Mexican  was  running  the  back  trail  of 
the  horse  of  Cal  Greathouse,  the  missing  ranch- 
man, and  it  was  very  early  seen  that  the  horse 
had  not  returned  over  the  route  taken  by  Great- 
house  when  he  started  out.  He  had  gone  along 
the  valley  of  the  Smoky  River,  whereas  the  course 
of  the  loose  animal  had  been  along  the  chord  of 
a  wide  arc  made  by  the  valley  of  that  stream, 
a  course  much  shorter  and  easier  to  traverse,  as 
it  evaded  a  part  of  that  rough  country  known  as 
the  breaks  of  the  Smoky,  a  series  of  gullies  and 
"  draws "  running  from  the  table-land  down  to 
the  deep  little  river  bed.  All  along  the  stream, 
at  ragged  intervals,  grew  scattered  clumps  of  cot- 
tonwoods  and  other  trees,  so  that  at  a  long  dis- 
tance the  winding  course  of  the  little  river  could 
be  traced  with  ease.  The  afternoon  of  the  first  day 
brought  the  travellers  well  within  view  of  this  tim- 


248     THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

ber  line,  but  the  rough  country  along  the  stream 
was  not  yet  reached  when  they  were  forced  to  quit 
the  trail  and  make  their  rough  bivouac  for  the 
night. 

There  was  a  curious  feeling  of  certainty  in 
Franklin's  mind,  as  they  again  took  saddle  for  the 
journey,  that  the  end  of  the  quest  was  not  far 
distant,  and  that  its  nature  was  predetermined. 
Neither  he  nor  Curly  expected  to  find  the  ranch- 
man alive,  though  neither  could  have  given  letter 
and  line  for  this  belief.  As  for  Juan,  his  face  was 
expressionless  as  ever.  On  the  morning  of  this 
second  day  they  began  to  cross  the  great  ribbon- 
like  pathways  of  the  northern  cattle  trail,  these 
now  and  then  blending  with  the  paths  of  the  van- 
ished buffalo.  The  interweaving  paths  of  the  cattle 
trail  were  flat  and  dusty,  whereas  the  buffalo  trails 
were  cut  deep  into  the  hard  earth.  Already  the 
dust  was  swept  and  washed  out  of  these  old  and 
unused  ways,  leaving  them  as  they  were  to  stand 
for  many  years  afterward,  deep  furrows  marking 
the  accustomed  journeyings  of  a  now  annihilated 
race. 

All  the  wild  animals  of  the  plains  know  how 
to  find  their  way  to  water,  and  the  deep  buffalo 
paths  all  met  and  headed  for  the  water  that  lay 
ahead,  and  which  was  to  be  approached  by  the 
easiest  possible  descent  from  the  table-land  through 
the  breaks.  Along  one  of  these  old  trails  the  horse 


THE  BODY  OF  THE  CRIME  249 

had  come  up  from  the  valley,  and  hence  it  was 
down  this  same  trail  that  Juan  eventually  led  the 
two  searchers  for  the  horse's  owner.  The  ponies 
plunged  down  the  rude  path  which  wound  among 
the  ridges  and  cut  banks,  and  at  last  emerged  upon 
the  flat,  narrow  valley  traversed  by  the  turbid 
stream,  in  that  land  dignified  by  the  name  of  river. 
Down  to  the  water  the  thirsty  horses  broke  eagerly, 
Juan  following,  and  lying  at  full  length  along  the 
bank,  where  he  lapped  at  the  water  like  a  hound. 

"  Que  camina — onde,  amigo?  "  asked  Curly  in 
cowboy  patois.  "  Which  way  ?  " 

The  Mexican  pointed  up  the  stream  with  care- 
lessness, and  they  turned  thither  as  soon  as  the  thirst 
of  all  had  been  appeased.  As  they  resumed  the 
march,  now  along  the  level  floor  of  the  winding 
little  valley,  Franklin  was  revolving  a  certain  im- 
pression in  his  mind.  In  the  mud  at  the  bank 
where  they  had  stopped  he  had  seen  the  imprint  of 
a  naked  foot — a  foot  very  large  and  with  an  up- 
turned toe,  widely  spreading  apart  from  its  fellows, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  this  track  was  not  so 
fresh  as  the  ones  he  had  just  seen  made  before  his 
eyes.  Troubled,  he  said  nothing,  but  gave  a  start 
as  Curly,  without  .introduction,  remarked,  as  though 
reading  his  thoughts : 

"  Cap,  I  seen  it,  too." 

"  His  footprint  at  the  bank?  " 

"  Yep.    He's  shore  been  here  afore." 
17 


250 


THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 


Neither  man  said  more,  but  both  grew  grave, 
and  both  looked  unconsciously  to  their  weapons. 
Their  way  now  led  among  ragged  plum  thickets, 
and  occasional  tangles  of  wild  grapevines,  or  such 
smaller  growths  as  clung  close  to  the  water  among 
the  larger,  ragged  cottonwoods  that  dotted  the 
floor  of  the  valley.  The  Mexican  plunged  ahead  as 
confidently  as  before,  and  in  this  tangled  going  his 
speed  was  greater  than  that  of  the  horses.  "  Cui- 
dado!"  (careful)  "Juan,"  cried  Curly  warningly, 
and  the  latter  turned  back  a  face  inscrutable  as  ever. 

The  party  moved  up  the  valley  a  mile  above 
the  old  buffalo  ford,  and  now  at  last  there  appeared 
a  change  in  the  deportment  of  the  guide.  His 
step  quickened.  He  prattled  vaguely  to  himself. 
It  seemed  that  something  was  near.  There  was  a 
solemnity  in  the  air.  Overhead  an  excited  crow 
crossed  and  recrossed  the  thin  strip  of  high  blue 
sky.  Above  the  crow  a  buzzard  swung  in  slow, 
repeated  circles,  though  not  joined  by  any  of  its 
sombre  brotherhood.  Mystery,  expectation,  dread, 
sat  upon  this  scene.  The  two  men  rode  with  hands 
upon  their  pistols  and  leaning  forward  to  see  that 
which  they  felt  must  now  be  near. 

They  turned  an  angle  of  the  valley,  and  came 
out  upon  a  little  flat  among  the  trees.  Toward  this 
open  space  the  Mexican  sprang  with  hoarse,  ex- 
cited cries.  The  horses  plunged  back,  snorting. 
Yet  in  the  little  glade  all  was  silence,  solitude. 


THE  BODY  OF  THE  CRIME  251 

Swiftly  Franklin  and  Curly  dismounted  and  made 
fast  their  horses,  and  then  followed  up  the  Mexican, 
their  weapons  now  both  drawn. 

This  glade,  now  empty,  had  once  held  a  man, 
or  men.  Here  was  a  trodden  place  where  a  horse 
had  been  tied  to  a  tree.  Here  was  the  broken  end 
of  a  lariat.  Here  had  been  a  little  bivouac,  a  bed 
scraped  up  of  the  scanty  fallen  leaves  and  bunches 
of  taller  grass.  Here  were  broken  bushes — broken, 
how?  There  was  the  fire,  now  sunken  into  a  heap 
of  ashes,  a  long,  large,  white  heap,  very  large  for 
a  cowman's  camp  fire.  And  there 

And  there  was  it!  There  was  some  Thing. 
There  was  the  reason  of  this  unspoken  warning  in 
the  air.  There  lay  the  object  of  their  search.  In 
a  flash  the  revolvers  covered  the  cowering  figure 
of  the  giant,  who,  prone  upon  his  knees,  was  now 
raving,  gibbering,  praying,  calling  upon  long-for- 
gotten saints  to  save  him  from  this  sight.  "  0 
Santa  Maria!  0  Purissima!  O  Madre  de  Dios! " 
he  moaned,  wringing  his  hands  and  shivering  as 
though  stricken  with  an  ague.  He  writhed  among 
the  leaves,  his  eyes  fixed  only  upon  that  ghastly 
shape  which  lay  before  him. 

There,  in  the  ashes  of  the  dead  fire,  as  though 
embalmed,  as  though  alive,  as  though  lingering  to 
accuse  and  to  convict,  lay  the  body  of  Greathouse, 
the  missing  man.  Not  merely  a  charred,  inciner- 
ated mass,  the  figure  lay  in  the  full  appearance  of 


252     THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

life,  a  cast  of  the  actual  man,  moulded  with  fineness 
from  the  white  ashes  of  the  fire !  Not  a  feature,  not 
a  limb,  not  a  fragment  of  clothing  was  left  unde- 
stroyed;  yet  none  the  less  here,  stretched  across 
the  bed  of  the  burned-out  fire,  with  face  upturned, 
with  one  arm  doubled  beneath  the  head  and  the 
other  with  clinched  hand  outflung,  lay  the  image, 
the  counterpart,  nay,  the  identity  of  the  man  they 
sought !  It  was  a  death  mask,  wrought  by  the  pity 
of  the  destroying  flames.  These  winds,  this  sky, 
the  air,  the  rain,  all  had  spared  and  left  it  here  in 
accusation  most  terrible,  in  evidence  unparalleled, 
incredibly  yet  irresistibly  true ! 

Franklin  felt  his  heart  stop  as  he  looked  upon 
this  sight,  and  Curly's  face  grew  pale  beneath  its  tan. 
They  gazed  for  a  moment  quietly,  then  Curly 
sighed  and  stepped  back.  "  Keep  him  covered, 
Cap,"  he  said,  and,  going  to  his  horse,  he  loosened 
the  long  lariat. 

"ArHba,  Juan,"  he  said  quietly.  "Get  up." 
He  kicked  at  the  Mexican  with  his  foot  as  he  lay, 
and  stirred  him  into  action.  "  Get  up,  Juan,"  he 
repeated,  and  the  giant  obeyed  meekly  as  a  child. 
Curly  tied  his  hands  behind  his  back,  took  away 
his  knife,  and  bound  him  fast  to  a  tree.  Juan 
offered  no  resistance  whatever,  but  looked  at  Curly 
with  wondering  dumb  protest  in  his  eyes,  as  of  an 
animal  unjustly  punished.  Curly  turned  again  to 
the  fire. 


THE  BODY  OF   THE  CRIME  253 

"It's  him,  all  right,"  said  he;  "that's  Cal." 
Franklin  nodded. 

Curly  picked  up  a  bit  of  stick  and  began  to 
stir  among  the  ashes,  but  as  he  did  so  both  he  and 
Franklin  uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise.  By 
accident  he  had  touched  one  of  the  limbs.  The 
stick  passed  through  it,  leaving  behind  but  a  crum- 
bled, formless  heap  of  ashes.  Curly  essayed  inves- 
tigation upon  the  other  side  of  the  fire.  A  touch, 
and  the  whole  ghastly  figure  was  gone !  There  re- 
mained no  trace  of  what  had  lain  there.  The  shal- 
low, incrusting  shell  of  the  fickle  ash  broke  in  and 
fell,  all  the  thin  exterior  covering  dropping  into  the 
cavern  which  it  had  inclosed !  Before  them  lay  not 
charred  and  dismembered  remains,  but  simply  a 
flat  table  of  ashes,  midway  along  it  a  slightly  higher 
ridge,  at  which  the  wind,  hitherto  not  conspiring, 
now  toyed,  flicking  away  items  here  and  there,  car- 
rying them,  spreading  them,  returning  them  unto 
the  dust.  Cal  Greathouse  had  made  his  charge, 
and  left  it  with  the  Frontier  to  cast  the  reckoning. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE   TRIAL 

"  YOUR  Honour,"  said  Franklin  to  the  Court, 
"  I  appear  to  defend  this  man." 

The  opening  sentence  of  the  young  advocate 
might  have  been  uttered  in  burlesque.  To  call 
this  a  court  of  justice  might  have  seemed  sheer 
libel.  There  was  not  the  first  suggestion  of  the 
dignity  and  solemnity  of  the  law. 

Ellisville  had  no  hall  of  justice,  and  the  court 
sat  at  one  place  or  another,  as  convenience  dictated. 
This  being  an  important  case,  and  one  in  which  all 
the  populace  was  interested,  Judge  Bristol  had  se- 
lected the  largest  available  assembly  room,  which 
happened  to  be  the  central  hall  of  Sam  Poston's 
livery  barn.  The  judge  sat  behind  a  large  upturned 
box,  which  supported  a  few  battered  books.  At 
his  right  the  red-nosed  prosecuting  attorney  shuf- 
fled his  papers.  Along  the  sides  of  the  open  hall- 
way, through  whose  open  doors  at  each  end  the 
wind  passed  freely,  sat  jury  and  audience,  indis- 
criminately mingled.  The  prisoner  himself,  igno- 
rant of  the  meaning  of  all  this,  sat  on  an  upturned 
254 


THE  TRIAL  2$ 5 

tub,  unshackled  and  unguarded.  Back  of  these 
figures  appeared  the  heads  of  a  double  row  of 
horses.  The  stamp  of  an  uneasy  hoof,  the  steady 
crunch  of  jaws  upon  the  hay,  with  now  and  then 
a  moist  blowing  cough  from  a  stall,  made  up  a 
minor  train  of  intermittent  sound.  Back  of  the 
seated  men  others  were  massed,  standing  in  the 
doorways.  Outside  the  building  stood  crowds, 
now  and  then  increased  or  lessened  by  those  who 
passed  in  or  out  of  the  room  where  the  court  was 
in  session.  These  interested  spectators  were  for  the 
most  part  dark,  sunburned  men,  wearing  wide  hats 
and  narrow  boots  with  spurs.  They  all  were  armed. 
Leaning  against  the  sides  of  the  mangers,  or  rest- 
ing a  hand  upon  the  shoulders  of  another,  they 
gazed  calmly  at  the  bar  of  justice.  The  attitude  of 
Ellisville  was  one  of  sardonic  calm.  As  a  function, 
as  a  show,  this  trial  might  go  on. 

The  trial  did  go  on,  rapidly,  without  quibbling, 
indeed  without  much  regard  for  the  formalities  of 
the  law.  The  jury  had  been  selected  before  Frank- 
lin made  his  appearance,  and  he  was  given  to  un- 
derstand that  this  jury  was  good  enough  for  him, 
and  was  the  one  before  which  this  prisoner  should 
be  tried.  A  formal  motion  for  the  discharge  of 
the  prisoner  was  overruled.  Without  much  delay 
the  prosecuting  attorney  arose  to  present  his 
charge. 

"  Yo'  Honah,"  said  the  attorney  for  the  State, 


256     THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

arising  and  striking  an  attitude  learned  in  earlier 
forensic  days — "  yo  Honah,  an*  gentlemen,  I  rise 
to  present  to  you,  an'  to  push  to  the  ultimate  pen- 
alty of  the  law,  a  case  of  the  most  serious,  the  most 
heinyus  crime,  committed  by  the  most  desperate 
and  dangerous  criminal,  that  has  thus  far  ever  dis- 
turbed the  peaceful  course  of  ouah  quiet  little  com- 
munity. There  he  sets  befo'  you,"  he  cried,  sud- 
denly raising  his  voice  and  pointing  a  forefinger 
at  the  prisoner,  who  sat  smiling  amiably.  "  There 
he  sets,  the  hardened  and  self-confessed  criminal, 
guilty  of  the  foulest  crime  upon  the  calendar  of 
ouah  law.  A  murderer,  gentlemen,  a  murderer 
with  red  hands  an'  with  the  brand  of  Cain  upon 
his  brow !  This  man,  this  fiend,  killed  ouah  fellow- 
citizen  Calvin  Greathouse — he  brutally  murdered 
him.  Not  content  with  murder,  he  attempted  to 
destroy  his  body  with  fiah,  seekin'  thus  to  wipe 
out  the  record  of  his  crime.  But  the  fiah  itself 
would  not  destroy  the  remains  of  that  prince  of 
men,  ouah  missin'  friend  an'  brother!  His  corpse 
cried  out,  accusin'  this  guilty  man,  an'  then  an* 
there  this  hardened  wretch  fell  abjeckly  onto  his 
knees  an'  called  on  all  his  heathen  saints  to  save 
him,  to  smite  him  blind,  that  he  might  no  mo* 
see,  sleepin'  or  wakin',  the  image  of  that  murdered 
man — that  murdered  man,  ouah  friend  an'  brother, 
ouah  citizen  an'  friend." 

The  orator  knew  his  audience.     He  knew  the 


THE  TRIAL  257 

real  jury.  The  shuffling  and  whispers  were  his  con- 
firmation. 

"  Yo'  Honah,"  began  the  accusing  voice  again, 
"  I  see  him  now.  I  see  this  prisoner,  this  murderer, 
the  central  figger  of  that  wild  an*  awful  scene.  He 
falls  upon  his  knees,  he  wrings  his  hands,  he  sup- 
plicates high  Heaven — that  infinite  Powah  which 
gave  life  to  each  of  us  as  the  one  most  precious 
gift — he  beseeches  Providence  to  breathe  back 
again  into  that  cold  clay  the  divine  spark  of  which 
his  red  hand  had  robbed  it.  Useless,  useless !  The 
dead  can  not  arise.  The  murdered  man  can  re- 
main to  accuse,  but  he  can  not  arise  again  in  life. 
He  can  not  again  hear  the  songs  of  birds.  He  can 
not  again  hear  the  prattle  of  his  babes.  He  can 
not  again  take  a  friend  by  the  hand.  He  can  not 
come  to  life.  The  heavens  do  not  open  fo'  that 
benef  cent  end ! 

"  But,  yo'  Honah,  the  heavens  will  open !  They 
will  send  down  a  bolt  o'  justice.  Nay,  they  would 
send  down  upon  ouah  heads  a  forked  messenger 
o*  wrath  if  we  should  fail  to  administer  justice, 
fail  to  do  that  juty  intrusted  into  ouah  hands! 
There  sets  the  man!  There  he  is  befo'  you!  His 
guilt  has  been  admitted.  Answer  me,  gentlemen, 
what  is  ouah  juty  in  this  case?  Shall  we  set  this 
incarnate  fiend  free  in  the  Ian'  again — shall  we  let 
him  come  clear  o'  this  charge — shall  we  turn  him 
loose  again  in  ouah  midst  to  murder  some  other 

18 


258     THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

of  ouah  citizens?  Shall  we  set  this  man  free?" 
His  voice  had  sunk  into  a  whisper  as  he  spoke  the 
last  words,  leaning  forward  and  looking  into  the 
faces  of  the  jury.  Suddenly  he  straightened  up,  his 
clinched  hand  shaken  high  above  his  head. 

"  No ! "  he  cried.  "  No !  I  say  to  you,  ten 
thousand  times  no !  We  are  a  people  quiet  an'  law- 
abidin'.  We  have  set  ouah  hands  to  the  conquest 
o'  this  Ian'.  We  have  driven  out  the  savages,  an' 
we  have  erected  heah  the  vine  an'  fig  tree  of  a  new 
community.  We  have  brought  hither  ouah  flocks 
an'  herds.  We  shall  not  allow  crime,  raf-handed 
an'  0w-rebuked,  to  stalk  through  the  quiet  streets 
of  ouah  law-abidin',  moral  town!  This  man  shall 
not  go  free !  Justice,  yo'  Honah,  justice,  gentlemen, 
is  what  this  community  asks.  An'  justice  is  what 
it  is  a-goin'  to  have.  Yo'  Honah,  an'  gentlemen,  I 
yiel'  to  the  statement  o'  the  defence." 

Franklin  rose  and  looked  calmly  about  him 
while  the  buzzing  of  comment  and  the  outspoken 
exclamations  of  applause  yet  greeted  the  speech  of 
the  prosecutor.  He  knew  that  Curly's  thoughtless 
earlier  description  of  the  scene  of  the  arrest  would 
in  advance  be  held  as  much  evidence  in  the  trial  as 
any  sworn  testimony  given  in  the  court.  Still,  the 
sentiment  of  pity  was  strong  in  his  heart.  He  re- 
solved to  use  all  he  knew  of  the  cunning  of  the  law 
to  save  this  half-witted  savage.  He  determined  to 
defeat,  if  possible,  the  ends  of  a  technical  justice, 


THE  TRIAL 


259 


in  order  to  secure  a  higher  and  a  broader  justice, 
the  charity  of  a  divine  mercy.  As  the  lawyer,  the 
agent  of  organized  society,  he  purposed  to  invoke 
the  law  in  order  to  defeat  the  law  in  this,  the  first 
trial,  for  this,  the  first  hostage  ever  given  to  civiliza- 
tion on  the  old  cattle  range.  He  prayed  to  see  tri- 
umph an  actual  justice  and  not  the  old  blind  spirit 
of  revenge.  He  realized  fully  how  much  was  there 
to  overcome  as  he  gazed  upon  the  set  faces  of  the 
real  jury,  the  crowd  of  grim  spectators.  Yet  in  his 
soul  there  sprang  so  clear  a  conviction  of  his  duty 
that  he  felt  all  fogs  clear  away,  leaving  his  intelli- 
gence calm,  clear,  dispassionate,  with  full  under- 
standing of  the  best  means  to  obtain  his  end.  He 
knew  that  argument  is  the  best  answer  to  oratory. 

"  Your  Honour,  and  gentlemen  of  the  jury,"  he 
began,  "  in  defending  this  man  I  stand  for  the  law. 
The  representative  of  the  State  invokes  the  law. 

"  What  is  that  law  ?  Is  it  violence  for  violence, 
hatred  for  unreasoning  hate?  Is  that  the  law? 
Or  is  the  love  of  justice,  the  love  of  fair  play,  at 
the  heart  of  the  law  ?  What  do  you  say  ?  Is  it  not 
right  for  any  man  to  have  a  fair  chance  ? 

"  I  yield  to  no  man  in  my  desire  to  see  a  better 
day  of  law  and  order  in  this  town.  We  are  two 
years  old  in  time,  but  a  century  old  in  violence.  Is 
it  merely  your  wish  that  we  add  one  more  grave 
to  the  long  rows  on  our  hillsides?  Is  that  your 
wish  ?  Do  you  want  a  trial,  or  do  you  wish  merely 


26o     THE  GIRL  AT  THE   HALFWAY  HOUSE 

an  execution?  Gentlemen,  I  tell  you  this  is  the 
most  important  day  in  the  history  of  this  town. 
Let  us  here  make  our  stand  for  the  law.  The  old 
ways  will  no  longer  serve.  We  are  at  the  turning 
of  the  road.  Let  us  follow  the  law. 

"  Now,  under  the  law  you  must,  in  order  to 
prove  the  crime  of  murder,  be  able  to  show  the 
body  of  the  victim;  you  must  show  that  murder 
has  really  been  done.  You  must  show  a  motive,  a 
reason.  You  must  show,  or  be  prepared  to  show, 
when  required,  a  mental  responsibility  on  the  part 
of  the  accused.  All  these  things  you  must  show 
by  the  best  possible  testimony,  not  by  what  you 
think,  or  what  you  have  heard,  but  by  direct  testi- 
mony, produced  here  in  this  court.  You  can't  ask 
the  accused  man  to  testify  against  himself.  You 
can't  ask  me,  his  counsel,  to  testify  against  him. 
Hence  there  is  left  but  one  witness  who  can  testify 
directly  in  this  case.  There  is  not  one  item  of  re- 
mains, not  one  bone,  one  rag,  one  shred  of  clothing, 
not  one  iota  of  evidence  introduced  before  this  hon- 
ourable court  to  show  that  the  body  of  Calvin 
Greathouse  was  ever  identified  or  found.  There  is 
no  corpus  delicti.  How  shall  you  say  that  this  miss- 
ing man  has  been  murdered?  Think  this  thing'* 
over.  Remember,  if  you  hang  this  man,  you  can 
never  bring  him  back  to  life. 

"  There  must  be  some  motive  shown  for  the 
supposition  of  such  an  act  as  murder.    What  mo- 


THE  TRIAL  261 

tive  can  be  shown  here  ?  Certainly  not  that  of  rob- 
bery. The  horse  of  the  missing  man  came  back 
alone,  its  lariat  dragging,  as  we  shall  prove.  It 
had  not  been  ridden  since  the  lariat  was  broken. 
You  all  know,  as  we  shall  prove,  that  this  man  Juan 
was  never  known  to  ride  a  horse.  We  shall  prove 
that  he  walked  sixty  miles,  to  the  very  spot  where 
the  horse  had  been  tied,  and  that  he  scorned  to 
touch  a  horse  on  his  whole  journey.  He  wanted 
no  horse.  He  stole  no  horse.  That  was  no  mo- 
tive. There  has  been  no  motive  shown.  Would 
a  criminal  lead  the  officers  of  the  law  to  the  very 
spot  where  he  had  committed  his  crime?  Had  this 
been  theft,  or  murder,  would  this  man  have  taken 
any  one  directly  and  unhesitatingly  to  that  spot  ?  I 
ask  you  this. 

"To  be  subject  to  the  law,  as  you  very  well 
know,  a  man  must  be  morally  responsible.  He 
must  know  right  and  wrong.  Even  the  savage  In- 
dians admit  this  principle  of  justice.  They  say  that 
the  man  of  unsound  mind  is  touched  by  the  hand  of 
the  Great  Spirit.  Shall  we  be  less  merciful  than 
they?  Look  at  this  smiling  giant  before  you.  He 
has  been  touched  by  the  hand  of  the  Almighty. 
God  has  punished  him  enough. 

"  I  shall  show  to  you  that  when  this  man  was  a 
child  he  was  struck  a  severe  blow  upon  the  head, 
and  that  since  that  time  he  has  never  been  of  sound 
mind,  his  brain  never  recovering  from  that  shock, 


262     THE  GIRL  AT   THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

a  blow  which  actually  broke  in  a  portion  of  his 
skull.  Since  that  time  he  has  had  recurrent  times 
of  violent  insanity,  with  alternating  spells  of  what 
seems  a  semi-idiocy.  This  man's  mind  never  grew. 
In  some  ways  his  animal  senses  are  keen  to  a  re- 
markable degree,  but  of  reason  he  has  little  or  none. 
He  can  not  tell  you  why  he  does  a  thing,  or  what 
will  happen  provided  that  he  does  thus  or  so.  This 
I  shall  prove  to  you. 

"  I  therefore  submit  to  you,  your  Honour,  and 
to  you,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  two  distinct  lines  of 
defence  which  do  not  conflict,  and  which  are  there- 
fore valid  under  the  law.  We  deny  that  any 
murder  has  been  committed,  that  any  motive  for 
murder  has  been  shown,  that  any  body  of  the  crime 
has  been  produced.  And  alternatively  we  submit 
that  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  is  a  man  of  unsound 
mind  and  known  to  be  such,  not  responsible  for  his 
acts,  and  not  in  any  wise  amenable  to  the  capital  fea- 
tures of  the  law.  I  ask  you,  gentlemen  of  the  jury, 
you  who  hold  this  man's  life  in  your  hands,  are  you 
going  to  hang  a  man  for  murder  when  it  is  not 
shown  a  murder  has  been  done?  And  would  you 
hang  a  man  who  is  more  ignorant  than  a  child  of 
right  and  wrong?  Is  that  fair  play?  Gentlemen, 
we  are  all  here  together,  and  one  of  us  is  as  good  as 
another.  Our  ambitions  are  the  same.  We  stand 
here  together  for  the  best  interests  of  this  growing 
country — this  country  whose  first  word  has  always 


THE  TRIAL  263 

been  fair  play.  Now,  is  it  your  already  formed  wish 
to  punish  this  man?  I  say,  no.  I  say,  first  give 
him  his  chance." 

As  Franklin  ceased  and  seated  himself  the 
silence  was  again  broken  by  a  rising  buzz  of  con- 
versation. This  was  proving  really  a  very  inter- 
esting show,  this  trial.  It  must  go  on  yet  a  little 
further. 

"  By  jinks,"  said  one  cow-puncher,  "  that's  right. 
That  fellow  Juan  is  loco,  an'  you  all  done  knowed 
that,  always." 

"  He  ain't  so  d n  loco  but  what  he  could  kill 

a  man,  all  right,"  said  another. 

"  Sure.  Cal  Greathouse  was  worth  sever'l  o' 
this  Greaser,"  remarked  another. 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  c'n  hang  him  legal,"  said 
a  judicial  voice. 

"To  h — 1  with  this  new-fangled  law,"  growled 
a  rough  answer  from  near  the  door.  "  Are  we 
dependin'  on  this  here  new  way  o'  takin'  care  of 
fellers  that  kills  too  many  folks?  If  the  Greaser 
done  it,  he's  guilty,  an'  that  settles  it.  Hangin's 
too  good  for  a  feller  that'll  kill  a  man  in  camp,  an* 
then  try  to  burn  him  up." 

"  That's  right !  "  "  Sure !  "  "  That's  the  talk !  " 
were  the  many  replies  greeting  this  comment. 

"  Order,  order,  gentlemen ! "  called  the  judge 
from  the  bench,  pounding  on  the  box  before 
him. 


264     THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

"  Call  William  Haskins,"  said  the  prosecuting 
attorney,  standing  up,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

"William  Haskins,  William  Haskins,  William 
Haskins !  Come  into  Court !  "  cried  out  the  clerk 
from  his  corner  of  the  store  box.  No  immediate 
response  was  made.  Some  one  nudged  Curly,  who 
started  up. 

"Who— me?"  he  said. 

"Is  your  name  William  Haskins?"  asked  the 
judge. 

"  Reckon  so,"  said  Curly.  "  My  folks  used  to 
call  me  that.  I  usually  go  under  the  road  brand  o* 
'  Curly/  though."  He  took  his  seat  on  a  stool  near 
the  store  box,  was  sworn,  with  his  hat  on,  and  the 
prosecuting  attorney  began  the  examination. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  " 

"  Why,  Curly." 

"  What  is  your  occupation  ?  " 

"What?" 

"  How  do  you  make  your  living  ?  " 

"  Punchin'  cows.  Not  that  I  low  it's  any  o' 
yore  d d  business." 

"Where  do  you  reside?" 

"Where  do  Hive?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  now,  I  don't  know.  My  folks  lives  on 
the  Brazos,  an*  Fve  been  drivin'  two  years.  Now  I 
taken  up  a  claim  on  the  Smoky,  out  here.  I  'low 
I'll  go  North  right  soon,  to  Wyomin',  maybe." 


THE  TRIAL  265 

"How  old  are  you?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know ;  but  I  'low  about  twenty- 
four  or  twenty-five,  along  in  there." 

"  Where  were  you  last  Wednesday  ?  " 

"What?" 

"  Were  you  one  of  the  posse  sent  out  to  search 
for  Cal  Greathouse  ?  " 

"  Yep ;  me  and  Cap  Franklin,  there." 

"Who  else?" 

"  Why,  Juan,  there,  him.  He  was  trailin'  the 
hoss  for  us." 

"Where  did  you  go?" 

"About  sixty  miles  southwest,  into  the  breaks 
of  the  Smoky." 

"What  did  you  find?" 

"  We  found  a  old  camp.  Hoss  had  been  tied 
there,  and  broke  its  lariat.  Bushes  was  broke 
some,  but  we  didn't  see  no  blood,  as  I  know  of." 

"  Never  mind  what  you  didn't  see." 

"  Well,  now " 

"  Answer  my  question." 

"  Now,  say,  friend,  you  don't  want  to  get  too 

gay." 

"  Answer  the  question,  Mr.  Haskins,"  said  the 
Court. 

"  Well,  all  right,  judge ;  I'll  do  it  to  oblige  you. 
The  most  we  saw  was  where  a  fire  had  been. 
Looked  like  a  right  smart  fire.  They  was  plenty  o' 
ashes  layin'  there." 


266     THE  GIRL  AT   THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

"  Did  you  see  anything  in  the  ashes  ?  " 

"  What  business  is  it  o'  yourn  ?  " 

"  Now,  now/'  said  the  Court,  "  you  must  answer 
the  questions,  Mr.  Haskins." 

"  All  right,  judge/'  said  Curly.  "  Well,  I  dun- 
no  hardly  what  we  did  see  any  mor'n  what  I  tole  all 
the  boys  when  we  first  brought  Juan  in.  I  tole 
you  all." 

"  Correct  the  witness,  your  Honour,"  said 
Franklin. 

"  Answer  only  the  questions,  Mr.  Haskins,"  said 
the  judge. 

"Very  well,"  said  the  prosecutor;  "what  did 
you  see  ?  Anything  like  a  man's  figure  ?  " 

"We  object!"  said  Franklin,  but  Curly  an- 
swered :  "  Well,  yes,  it  did  look  like  a  feller  a-layin' 
there.  But  when  we  touched  it " 

"  Never  mind.  Did  the  prisoner  see  this  fig- 
ure?" 

"  Shore." 

"What  did  he  do?" 

"  Well,  he  acted  plumb  loco.  He  gets  down  an* 
hollers.  *  Madre  de  Dios! '  he  hollers.  I  'low  he 
wuz  plenty  scared." 

"Did  he  look  scared?" 

"  I  object,"  cried  Franklin. 

"  S'tained,"  said  the  judge. 

"  'Ception,"  said  the  prosecuting  attorney. 

"  Well,  what  did  the  prisoner  say  or  do  ?  " 


THE   TRIAL  267 

"  Why,  he  crawls  aroun'  an'  hollers.  So  we 
roped  him,  then.  But  say " 

"  Never  mind." 

«  Well,  I  was " 

"  Never  mind.     Did  you " 

"  Shore !  I  foun'  the  end  o'  the  lariat  tied  to  a 
tree." 

"  But  did  you " 

"Yes,  I  tole  you!  I  foun'  it  tied.  End  just 
fits  the  broke  end  o'  the  lariat  onto  the  saddle,  when 
the  hoss  come  back.  Them  hide  ropes  ain't  no 
good." 

"  Never  mind " 

"  If  ever  they  onct  got  rotten " 

"  Never  mind.    Was  that  Greathouse's  rope  ?  " 

"  Maybe  so.     Now,  them  hide  ropes " 

"  Never  mind  about  the  hide  ropes.  I  want  to 
know  what  the  prisoner  did." 

"  Well,  when  we  roped  him  he  didn't  make  no 
kick." 

"  Never  mind.  He  saw  the  figure  in  the 
ashes?" 

"  What  do  you  know  about  it  ? — you  wasn't 
there." 

"  No,  but  I'm  going  to  make  you  tell  what  was 
there." 

"  You  are,  huh  ?  Well,  you  crack  yer  whip.  I 
like  to  see  any  feller  make  me  tell  anything  I  don't 
want  to  tell." 


268     THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

"  That's  right,  Curly,"  said  some  one  back  in 
the  crowd.  "  No  bluff  goes." 

"  Not  in  a  hundred !  "  said  Curly. 

"  Now,  now,  now ! "  began  the  judge  drowsily. 
The  prosecuting  attorney  counselled  of  craftiness, 
at  this  juncture,  foreseeing  trouble  if  he  insisted. 
"  Take  the  witness,"  he  said  abruptly. 

"  Cross-'xamine,  d'fence,"  said  the  judge,  set- 
tling back. 

"  Now,  Curly,"  said  Franklin,  as  he  took  up 
the  questioning  again,  "  please  tell  us  what  Juan  did 
after  he  saw  this  supposed  figure  in  the  ashes." 

"  Why,  now,  Cap,  you  know  that  just  as  well 
as  I  do." 

"  Yes,  but  I  want  you  to  tell  these  other  folks 
about  it." 

"  Well,  of  course,  Juan  acted  plenty  loco — you 
know  that." 

"  Very  well.  Now  what,  if  anything,  did  you  do 
to  this  alleged  body  in  the  ashes  ?  " 

"  'Eject  1  Not  cross-examination,"  cried  the 
State's  attorney. 

"  M'  answer,"  said  the  judge. 

"  What  did  I  do  to  it?  "  said  Curly.  "  Why,  I 
poked  it  with  a  stick." 

"What  happened?" 

"  Why,  it  fell  plumb  to  pieces." 

"Did  it  disappear?" 

"  Shore  it  did.    Wasn't  a  thing  left." 


THE   TRIAL  269 

"  Did  it  look  like  a  man's  body,  then?  " 

"  No,  it  just  looked  like  a  pile  o'  ashes." 

"  Bore  no  trace  or  resemblance  to  a  man,  then  ?  " 

"  None  whatever." 

"  You  wouldn't  have  taken  it  for  a  body,  then  ?  " 

"  Nope.      Course  not." 

"  Was  any  part  of  a  body  left?  " 

"  Nary  thing." 

"  Any  boot,  hat,  or  bit  of  clothing?  " 

"  Not  a  single  thing,  fur's  I  c'd  see." 

"  That's  all,"  said  Franklin. 

"Re-direct,  Mr.  Prosecutor?"  said  the  Court. 
This  was  Greek  to  the  audience,  but  they  were  en- 
joying the  entertainment. 

"  Pass  the  re-direct,"  said  the  State's  attorney 
confidently. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  recall  this  witness,  Mr.  Frank- 
lin?" asked  the  Court. 

"  Yes,  if  your  Honour  please.  I  want  to  take  up 
some  facts  in  the  earlier  life  of  the  prisoner,  as  bear- 
ing upon  his  present  mental  condition." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  judge,  yawning.  "  You 
may  wait  a  while,  Mr.  Haskins." 

"  Well,  then,  Curly,"  said  Franklin,  again  ad- 
dressing himself  to  his  witness,  "  please  tell  us  how 
long  you  have  known  this  prisoner." 

"  Ever  since  we  was  kids  together.  He  used  to 
be  a  mozo  on  my  pap's  ranch,  over  in  San  Saba 
County." 


THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

"  Did  you  ever  know  him  to  receive  any  injury, 
any  blow  about  the  head  ?  " 

"  Well,  onct  ole  Hank  Swartzman  swatted  him 
over  the  head  with  a  swingletree.  Sort  o'  laid  him 
out,  some." 

"'Eject!"  cried  the  State's  attorney,  but  the 
judge  yawned  "  M'  go  on." 

"  Did  he  act  strangely  after  receiving  that 
blow?" 

"  Why,  yes ;  I  reckon  you  would  yerself.  He 
hit  him  a  good  lick.  It  was  fer  ridin'  Hank's  fa- 
vourite mare,  an'  from  that  time  to  now  Juan 
ain't  never  been  on  horseback  since.  That  shows 
he's  loco.  Any  man  what  walks  is  loco.  Part 
o'  the  time,  Juan,  he's  bronco,  but  all  the  time 
he's  loco." 

"  He  has  spells  of  violence  ?  " 

"  Shore.  You  know  that.  You  seen  how  he  fit 
that  Injun " 

"  Oh,  keep  him  to  the  line,"  protested  the  prose- 
cutor. 

"  We  won't  take  up  that  just  now,  Curly,"  said 
Franklin. 

"  Well,  this  here  shorely  is  the  funniest  layout 
I  ever  did  see,"  said  Curly,  somewhat  injured.  "  A 

feller  can't  say  a  d d  thing  but  only  jest  what 

you  all  want  him  to  say.  Now,  say " 

"Yes,  but — "  began  Franklin,  fearing  that  he 
might  meet  trouble  with  this  witness  even  as  the 


THE   TRIAL  271 

prosecutor  had,  and  seeing  the  latter  smiling  behind 
his  hand  in  recognition  of  this  fact. 

"  Now,  say,"  insisted  Curly,  "  if  you  want  some- 
thing they  ain't  none  o'  you  said  a  word  about 
yet,  I'll  tell  you  something.  You  see,  Juan, 

he  had  a   sister,   and  this  here   Cal   Greathouse, 
* >» 

"I  object,  yo'  Honah!  I  object!"  cried  the 
State's  attorney,  springing  to  his  feet.  "  This  is 
bringin'  the  dignity  o'  the  law  into  ridicule,  sah! 
into  ridicule !  I  object !  " 

"  Er,  ah-h-h !  "  yawned  the  judge,  suddenly  sit- 
ting up.  "  'Journ  court,  Mr.  Clerk !  We  will  set 
to-morrow  mornin'  at  the  same  place,  at  nine 
o'clock. — Mr.  Sheriff,  take  charge  of  the  prisoner. — 
Where  is  the  sheriff,  Mr.  Clerk?  " 

"  Please  the  Court/'  said  the  prosecuting  attor- 
ney, "  Sheriff  Watson  is  not  here  to-day.  He  is 
lyin'  sick  out  to  his  ranch.  He  was  injured,  yo' 
Honah,  in  arrestin'  Ike  Anderson,  and  he  has  not 
yet  recovered." 

"  Well,  who  is  in  charge  of  this  prisoner  ?  "  said 
the  Court.  "  There  ought  to  be  some  one  to  take 
care  of  him." 

"  I  reckon  I  am,  judge,"  said  Curly.  "  He  is 
sort  o'  stayin'  with  me  while  Bill's  under  the 
weather." 

"  Well,  take  him  in  charge,  some  one,  and  havq 
him  here  in  the  morning." 


272      THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

"  All  right,  judge,"  said  Curly  quietly,  "  I'll  take 
care  of  him." 

He  beckoned  to  Juan,  and  the  giant  rose  and 
followed  after  him,  still  smiling  and  pleased  at  what 
to  him  also  was  a  novel  show. 

It  was  three  o'clock  of  the  afternoon.  The 
thirst  of  a  district  judge  had  adjourned  the  district 
court.  Franklin's  heart  sank.  He  dreaded  the 
night.  The  real  court,  as  he  admitted  to  himself, 
would  continue  its  session  that  night  at  the  Cottage 
bar,  and  perhaps  it  might  not  adjourn  until  a  verdict 
had  been  rendered. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE  VERDICT 

THERE  came  over  the  town  of  Ellisville  that 
night  an  ominous  quiet.  But  few  men  appeared 
on  the  streets.  Nobody  talked,  or  if  any  one  did 
there  was  one  subject  to  which  no  reference  was 
made.  A  hush  had  fallen  upon  all.  The  sky,  dotted 
with  a  million  blazing  stars,  looked  icy  and  apart. 
A  glory  of  moonlight  flooded  the  streets,  yet  never 
was  moon  more  cold. 

Franklin  finished  his  dinner  and  sat  down  alone 
for  a  time  in  the  great  barren  office  of  the  depot 
hotel  where  he  made  his  home.  The  excitement 
of  the  trial,  suspended  at  its  height,  was  now  fol- 
lowed by  reaction,  a  despondency  which  it  was 
hard  to  shake  off.  Was  this,  then,  the  land  of  his 
choice?  he  thought.  And  what,  then,  was  this 
human  nature  of  which  men  sung  and  wrote?  He 
shook  himself  together  with  difficulty. 

He  went  to  his  room  and  buckled  on  his  re- 
volver, smiling  grimly  as  he  did  so  at  the  thought 
of  how  intimately  all  law  is  related  to  violence,  and 
how  relative  to  its  environment  is  all  law.  He 

273 


274     THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

went  to  Battersleigh's  room  and  knocked,  entering 
at  the  loud  invitation  of  that  friend. 

"Shure,  Ned,  me  boy,"  said  Battersleigh, 
"  ye've  yer  side  arms  on  this  evenin'.  Ye  give  up 
the  profession  of  arms  with  reluctance.  Tell  me, 
Ned,  what's  the  campaign  fer  the  evenin'  ?  " 

"Well,"  said  Franklin,  "I  thought  I'd  step 
over  and  sit  awhile  with  Curly  this  evening.  He 
may  be  feeling  a  little  lonesome." 

"  Quite  right  ye  are,  me  boy,"  said  Battersleigh 
cheerfully.  "  Quite  right.  An'  if  ye  don't  mind  I'll 
just  jine  ye.  It's  lonesome  I  am  meself  the  night." 

Battersleigh  busied  himself  about  his  room,  and 
soon  appeared  arrayed,  as  was  Franklin  himself, 
with  a  revolver  at  his  belt. 

"  Shure,  Ned,  me  boy,"  he  said,  "  an  officer  an* 
a  gintleman  should  nivver  appear  abroad  without 
his  side  arms.  At  laste,  methinks,  not  on  a  night 
like  this."  He  looked  at  Franklin  calmly,  and  the 
latter  rose  and  grasped  the  hand  of  the  fearless  old 
soldier  without  a  word.  The  two  strolled  out  to- 
gether down  the  street  in  the  direction  of  the  shanty 
where  Curly  was  keeping  his  "  prisoner." 

At  this  place  they  saw  a  few  men  sitting  outside 
the  door,  calmly  smoking — among  these  Sam,  the 
liveryman,  a  merchant  by  name  of  Chapman,  and  a 
homesteader  who  was  known  as  One-eyed  Penny- 
man.  Inside  the  house,  playing  cards  with  Curly, 
were  four  other  men.  Franklin  noticed  that  they 


THE  VERDICT  2/5 

all  were  armed.  They  all  appeared,  from  their 
story,  to  have  just  dropped  in  to  pass  a  little  time 
with  Curly.  From  time  to  time  others  dropped  in, 
most  of  them  remaining  outside  in  the  moonlight, 
sitting  on  their  heels  along  the  porch,  talking  but 
little,  and  then  mentioning  anything  but  the  one 
subject  which  was  uppermost  in  every  one's  mind. 
Yet,  though  nothing  was  said,  it  might  well  be  seen 
that  this  little  body  of  men  were  of  those  who  had 
taken  the  stand  for  law  and  order,  and  who  were 
resolved  upon  a  new  day  in  the  history  of  the  town. 
It  was  a  battle  of  the  two  hotels  and  what  they 
represented.  Over  at  the  great  barroom  of  the  Cot- 
tage there  was  at  the  same  time  assembled  a  much 
larger  gathering,  composed  chiefly  of  those  tran- 
sient elements  which  at  that  time  really  made  up 
the  larger  portion  of  the  population  of  the  place 
— wide-hatted  men,  with  narrow  boots  and  broad 
belts  at  which  swung  heavy,  blued  revolvers  with 
broad  wooden  butts — a  wild-looking,  wild-living 
body  of  men,  savage  in  some  ways,  gentle  in  others, 
but  for  the  most  part  just,  according  to  their  creed. 
The  long  bar  was  crowded,  and  outside  the  door 
many  men  were  standing  along  the  wide  gallery. 
They,  too,  were  reticent.  All  drank  whisky,  and 
drank  it  regularly.  Up  to  ten  o'clock  the  whisky 
had  produced  no  effect.  The  assembly  was  still 
engaged  in  deliberation,  drinking  and  thinking, 
calmly,  solemnly. 


THE  GIRL  AT  THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

At  ten  o'clock  a  big  Texan  raised  his  glass  high 
above  his  head  and  smashed  it  upon  the  bar. 

"  Law  an'  order  be  damned !  "  said  he.  "  What 
kind  o'  law  an*  order  is  it  to  let  a  murderin' 
Greaser  like  that  come  clear?  Which  of  us'll  be 
the  next  he'd  kill?" 

There  was  no  answer.  A  sigh,  a  shiver,  a  little 
rustling  sound  passed  over  the  crowd. 

"  We  always  used  ter  run  our  business  good 
enough,"  resumed  the  Texan.  "  What  need  we  got 
o'  lawyers  now?  Didn't  this  Greaser  kill  Cal? 
Crazy?  He's  just  crazy  enough  to  be  mean.  He's 
crazy  so'st  he  ain't  safe,  that's  what." 

The  stir  was  louder.  A  cowman  motioned,  and 
the  barkeeper  lined  the  whole  bar  with  glasses, 
setting  out  six  bottles  of  conviction. 

"  Curly  means  all  right,"  said  one  voice.  "  I 
know  that  boy,  an*  he's  all  right." 

"  Shore  he's  all  right !  "  said  the  first  voice,  "  an' 
so's  Bill  Watson  all  right.  But  what's  the  use?" 

"  Loco,  of  course  the  Greaser's  loco"  broke  in 
another  speaker.  "  So's  a  mad  dog  loco.  But 
about  the  best  thing's  to  kill  it,  so'st  it's  safer  to  be 
roun'." 

Silence  fell  upon  the  crowd.  The  Texan  con- 
tinued. "  We  always  did"  he  said." 

"  Yes,"  said  another  voice.  "  That's  right.  We 
always  did" 

"  Cury'll  never  let  him  go,"   said  one  irrele- 


THE  VERDICT  277 

vantly.  "  Seems  to  me  we  better  sen'  this  Greaser 
off  to  the  States,  put  him  in  a  'sylum,  er  somethin'." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  tall  Texan ;  "  and  I  like  to  know 
ef  that  ain't  a  blame  sight  worse'n  hangin'  a  man  ?  " 

"  That's  so,"  assented  several  voices.  And  in- 
deed to  these  men,  born  and  bred  in  the  free  life 
of  the  range,  the  thought  of  captivity  was  more 
repugnant  than  the  thought  of  death. 

"  The  lawyer  feller,  he  ain't  to  blame,"  said  one 
apologetically.  "  He  made  things  look  right  plain. 
He  ain't  no  fool." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  as  he  helt  no  aidge  over 
ole  Claib  Benson,"  said  another  argumentatively. 
"  Claib  puts  it  mighty  powerful." 

"Yes,  but,"  said  the  other  eagerly,  "Claib 
means  fer  hangin'  by  the  Co'te." 

"  Shore,"  said  a  voice.  "  Now,  I'm  one  o'  the 
jury,  but  I  says  in  my  own  min',  ef  we  convict  this 
yer  man,  we  got  to  hang  him  right  away  anyway, 
'cause  we  ain't  got  no  jail,  an'  we  kain't  afford  no 
guard  to  watch  him  all  the  time.  Now,  he'd  have  to 
be  hung  right  away,  anyhow."  This  half  apolo- 
getically. 

"  What  do  most  o'  you  fellers  on  the  jury  think  ? 
Does  this  here  crazy  business  go  with  you  all  ?  " 

"  Well,  kin  savvy,"  replied  the  juror  judicially. 
"  Some  o'  the  boys  think  it  a  leetle  tough  to  hang 
a  feller  fer  a  thing  he  kain't  remember  and  that  he 
didn't  never  think  was  no  harm.  It  don't  look  like 


THE  GIRL  AT  THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

the  Greaser'd  take  any  one  right  to  where  he  would 
shore  be  convicted,  ef  he  had  of  made  this  here 
killin'." 

"  Well,"  said  a  conservative  soothingly,  "  let's 
wait  till  to-morrer.  Let's  let  the  Co'te  set  another 
day,  anyhow." 

"  Yes,  I  reckon  that's  right ;  yes,  that's  so,"  said 
others ;  "  we'd  better  wait  till  to-morrer." 

A  brief  silence  fell  upon  the  gathering,  a  silence 
broken  only  by  tinklings  or  shufflings  along  the 
bar.  Then,  all  at  once,  the  sound  of  an  excited 
voice  rose  and  fell,  the  cry  of  some  one  out  upon 
the  gallery  in  the  open  air.  The  silence  deepened 
for  one  moment,  and  then  there  was  a  surge  toward 
the  door. 

Far  off,  over  the  prairie,  there  came  a  little 
flat,  recurrent  sound,  or  series  of  sounds,  as  of  one 
patting  his  fingers  softly  together.  It  fell  and  rose 
and  grew,  coming  rapidly  nearer,  until  at  length 
there  could  be  distinguished  the  cracking  and  pop- 
ping of  the  hoofs  of  running  horses.  The  sound 
broke  into  a  rattling  rumble.  There  came  across 
the  still,  keen  night  a  wild,  thin,  high,  shrilling 
yell,  product  of  many  voices. 

"  It's  the  Bar  O  outfit,  from  the  Brazos,  com- 
ing in,"  said  some  one.  The  crowd  pressed  out 
into  the  air.  It  opened  and  melted  slightly.  The 
crowd  at  Curly's  shanty  increased  slightly,  silently. 
Inside,  Curly  and  his  friend  still  played  cards.  The 


THE  VERDICT  279 

giant  prisoner  lay  asleep  upon  the  floor,  stretched 
out  on  his  thin  native  wool  mattress,  his  huge  bulk 
filling  half  the  floor. 

The  rattle  of  many  hoofs  swept  up  to  the  door 
of  the  Cottage,  where  the  restive,  nervous  horses 
were  left  standing  while  the  men  went  in,  their 
leader,  a  stocky,  red-mustached  man,  bearing  with 
him  the  rope  which  he  had  loosened  from  his  sad- 
dle. Having  drunk,  the  leader  smote  upon  the  bar 
with  a  heavy  hand. 

"  Come  along,  men,"  he  called  out.  "  The 

quicker  we  hang  that  d d  Greaser  the  better  it 

will  be.  We  done  heard  there  was  some  sort  o' 
trial  goin'  on  here  in  town  over  this.  We  cowmen 
ain't  goin'  to  stand  no  such  foolishness.  This 
Greaser  killed  Cal  Greathouse,  an'  he's  got  to 
hang." 

He  moved  toward  the  door,  followed  by  many 
silently,  by  others  with  steps  that  lagged.  "  Well, 
you  see "  began  one  man. 

"To  h— 1  with  all  that!"  said  the  newcomer, 
turning  upon  him  fiercely.  "We  don't  need  no 
cowards ! " 

"  No,  that  ain't  it,"  resumed  the  first  man,  "  but 
we  got  to  respeck  the  Co'te — fust  Co'te  ever  did 
set  here,  you  see.  The  fellers,  some  of  'em,  thinks 
— some  o'  the  jury  thinks — that  the  feller's  too 
crazy  fer  to  hang." 

"  Crazy  be  d d !     We're  goin'  to  hang  him, 


280     THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

an*  that  settles  it.  Law  an*  order  kin  take  care  of  it 
afterward." 

All  the  time  they  were  shifting  toward  the  door. 
Outside  the  band  of  cattlemen  who  had  just  ridden 
in,  fresh  from  the  trail,  and  with  but  a  partial  knowl- 
edge of  the  arguments  that  had  been  advanced  in 
this  court,  for  which  they  had  but  small  respect  at 
best,  settled  the  immediate  question  in  an  instant. 
As  though  by  concert  they  swung  into  saddle  and 
swept  off  up  the  street  in  a  body,  above  the  noise 
of  their  riding  now  breaking  a  careless  laugh,  now 
a  shrill  yell  of  sheer  joyous  excitement.  They 
carried  with  them  many  waverers.  More  than  a 
hundred  men  drew  up  in  front  of  the  frail  shelter 
over  which  was  spread  the  doubtful  aegis  of  the 
law. 

Fifty  men  met  them.  The  lights  went  out  in 
the  house  in  an  instant,  and  in  front  of  the  door 
there  swept  a  dark  and  silent  cordon.  The  leader 
of  the  invaders  paused,  but  went  straight  forward. 

"  We  want  that  man !  "  he  said. 

There  was  no  answer.  The  line  in  front  of  the 
door  darkened  and  thickened.  Finally  the  figure 
of  the  young  lawyer  appeared,  and  he  said  calmly, 
sternly : 

"  You  know  very  well  you  can't  have  him." 

"  We  don't  know  nothin'  o'  the  sort.  We  want 
him,  an'  we're  goin'  to  have  him.  We  don't  want 
no  one  else,  an'  we  won't  make  no  trouble,  but 


THE   VERDICT  28 1 

we're  goin'  to  take  the  Mexican.  Git  out  the 
road!" 

A  second  figure  stood  by  the  side  of  Franklin, 
and  this  man  was  recognised  by  the  leader. 

"  Aw,  now,  Curly,  what  d d  foolishness  is 

this  here?  Bring  him  out." 

"  You  know  I  won't,  Jim,"  said  Curly,  simply. 
"  We're  tryin'  him  on  the  square.  You  ain't  the 
Co'te.  I  kain't  give  him  to  no  one  but  the 
Co'te." 

"  We  are  the  Co'te !  "  came  the  hot  reply.  "  The 
Co'te  that  runs  this  range  fer  hoss-thieves  an'  mur- 
derers. Now,  see  here,  Curly,  we're  all  your 
friends,  an'  you  know  it,  but  that  feller  has  got  to 
hang,  an'  hang  to-night.  Git  out  the  way.  What's 
the  matter  with  you  ?  " 

"  They  ain't  nothin'  the  matter  with  me,"  said 
Curly  slowly,  "  'ceptin'  I  done  said  I  wouldn't  give 
this  man  up  to  no  man  but  the  Co'te.  A  lot  o' 
us  fellers,  here  in  the  settlement,  we  'lowed  that  the 
law  goes  here  now." 

Silence  fell  for  an  instant,  then  from  the  rear 
of  the  party  there  came  pushing  and  crowding  and 
cries  of  "  Burn  the  house — drive  him  out !  "  There 
was  a  rush,  but  it  was  met  by  a  silent  thickening 
of  the  line  at  the  point  assailed.  Men  scuffled  with 
men,  swearing  and  grunting,  panting  hard.  Here 
and  there  weapons  flashed  dully,  though  as  yet  no 

shot  was  fired.    Time  and  again  Franklin  raised  his 
19 


282     THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

voice.  "  Men,  listen  to  me ! "  he  cried.  "  We 
promise  you  a  fair  trial — we  promise " 

"  Shut  up !  "  cried  the  leader,  and  cries  of  "  No 
talking ! "  came  from  the  crowd.  "  Give  him  up, 
or  we'll  clean  you  all  out ! "  cried  another  voice, 
angrily.  The  rushers  toward  the  house  grew  closer, 
so  that  assailants  and  besiegers  were  now  mingled 
in  a  fighting,  swearing  mass. 

"  You're  no  cowman,  Curly,"  cried  one  voice, 
bitterly,  out  of  the  black  shifting  sea  in  front  of  the 
house. 

"  You're  a  d d  liar !  "  cried  Curly  in  reply, 

"  whoever  says  that  to  me !  I'm  only  a-keepin'  of 
my  word.  You  kain't  clean  us  out.  I'll  shoot  the 
livin'  soul  out  o'  any  man  that  touches  that  door! 
This  here  is  the  jail,  an'  I'm  the  deppity,  and,  by 
!  you'll  not  have  my  prisoner ! " 

"  Quite  right,  me  man,"  said  a  cool  voice  at 
Curly's  side,  and  a  hand  fell  on  his  shoulder  as  a 
tall  form  loomed  up  in  the  crowd.  "  There's  good 
matayrial  in  you,  me  bully.  Hould  yer  position,  an' 
be  sure  that  Batty's  with  you,  at  the  laste.  Fair 
play's  a  jule,  an'  it's  fair  play  we're  goin'  to  have 
here." 

Backed  by  a  crowd  of  men  whose  resolution  was 
as  firm  as  their  own,  these  three  fell  back  in  front 
of  the  door.  Franklin  felt  his  heart  going  fast,  and 
knew  that  more  was  asked  of  him  here  than  had 
ever  been  upon  the  field  of  battle;  yet  he  was  ex- 


THE  VERDICT  283 

ultant  at  the  discovery  that  he  had  no  thought 
of  wavering.  He  knew  then  that  he  had  been 
proved.  With  equal  joy  he  looked  upon  the  face 
of  Curly,  frowning  underneath  the  pushed-back 
hat,  and  upon  that  of  Battersleigh,  keen-looking, 
eager,  as  though  about  to  witness  some  pleasurable, 
exciting  thing.  Yet  he  knew  the  men  in  front  were 
as  brave  as  they,  and  as  desperately  resolved.  In 
a  moment,  he  reflected,  the  firing  would  begin. 
He  saw  Curly's  hands  lying  lightly  upon  the  butts 
of  his  revolvers.  He  saw  Battersleigh  draw  his 
revolver  and  push  with  the  side  of  the  barrel  against 
the  nearest  men  as  though  to  thrust  them  back. 
He  himself  crowded  to  the  fore,  eager,  expectant, 
prepared.  One  shot,  and  a  score  of  lives  were 
done,  and  dark  indeed  would  be  this  night  in  Ellis- 
ville. 

Suddenly  the  climax  came.  The  door  was 
thrust  irresistibly  open,  not  from  without,  but  from 
within.  Stooping,  so  that  his  head  might  clear 
its  top,  the  enormous  figure  of  Juan,  the  Mexican, 
appeared  in  the  opening.  He  looked  out,  ignorant 
of  the  real  reason  of  this  tumult,  yet  snuffing  con- 
flict as  does  the  bear  not  yet  assailed.  His  face, 
dull  and  impassive,  was  just  beginning  to  light  up 
with  suspicion  and  slow  rage. 

A  roar  of  anger  and  excitement  rose  as  the 
prisoner  was  seen  standing  there  before  them, 
though  outlined  only  by  the  dim  light  of  the  sky. 


284     THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

Every  man  in  the  assailing  party  sprang  toward  the 
building.  The  cries  became  savage,  beastlike.  It 
was  no  longer  human  beings  who  contended  over 
this  poor,  half-witted  being,  but  brutes,  less  reason- 
able than  he. 

Juan  left  the  door.  He  swept  Franklin  and 
Curly  and  Battersleigh  aside  as  though  they  were 
but  babes.  It  was  his  purpose  to  rush  out,  to 
strike,  to  kill.  It  was  the  moment  of  opportunity 
for  the  leader  of  the  assailants.  The  whistle  of  a 
rope  cut  the  air,  and  the  noose  tightened  about  the 
giant's  neck  with  instant  grip.  There  was  a  surge 
back  upon  the  rope,  a  movement  which  would  have 
been  fatal  for  any  other  man,  which  would  have 
been  fatal  to  him,  had  the  men  got  the  rope  to 
a  horse  as  they  wished,  so  that  they  might  drag  the 
victim  by  violence  through  the  crowd. 

But  with  Juan  this  act  was  not  final.  The  noose 
enraged  him,  but  did  not  frighten  or  disable  him. 
As  the  great  bear  of  the  foothills,  when  roped  by 
the  horseman,  scorns  to  attempt  escape,  but  pulls 
man  and  horse  toward  him  by  main  force,  so  the 
giant  savage  who  was  now  thus  assailed  put  forth 
his  strength,  and  by  sheer  power  of  arm  drew  his 
would-be  captors  to  him,  hand  over  hand.  The 
noose  about  his  own  neck  he  loosened  with  one 
hand.  Then  he  raised  his  hand  and  let  it  fall.  The 
caster  of  the  rope,  his  collar  bone  broken  and  his 
shoulder  blade  cracked  across,  fell  in  a  heap  at  his 


THE  VERDICT 


28S 


feet  as  the  swaying  crowd  made  way.  Once  again 
there  was  silence,  one  moment  of  confusion,  hesi- 
tation. Then  came  the  end. 

There  came,  boring  into  the  silence  with  hor- 
rible distinctness,  the  sound  of  one  merciful,  mys- 
terious shot.  The  giant  straightened  up  once,  a 
vast  black  body  towering  above  the  black  mass 
about  him,  and  then  sank  gently,  slowly  down,  as 
though  to  curl  himself  in  sleep. 

There  was  a  groan,  a  roar,  a  swift  surging  of 
men,  thick,  black,  like  swarming  bees.  Some  bent 
above  the  two  prone  figures.  Others  caught  at 
the  rope,  grovelling,  snarling. 

They  were  saved  the  last  stage  of  their  disgrace. 
Into  the  crowd  there  pressed  the  figure  of  a  new- 
comer, a  hatless  man,  whose  face  was  pale,  whose 
feet  were  unshod,  and  who  bore  one  arm  helpless 
in  a  dirty  sling  which  hung  about  his  neck.  Hag- 
gard and  unkempt,  barefooted,  half-clad  as  he  had 
stumbled  out  of  bed  at  his  ranch  six  miles  away,  Bill 
Watson,  the  sheriff,  appeared  a  figure  unheroic 
enough.  With  his  broken  arm  hanging  useless  and 
jostled  by  the  crowd,  he  raised  his  right  hand  above 
his  head  and  called  out,  in  a  voice  weak  and  halting, 
but  determined : 

"  Men,  go — go  home !  I  command  you — in 
the  name — of  the  law !  " 


BOOK   IV 
THE  DAY  OF   THE  PLOUGH 


CHAPTER   XXX 

THE   END    OF   THE   TRAIL 

THE  Cottage  Hotel  of  Ellisville  was,  singularly 
enough,  in  its  palmy  days  conducted  by  a  woman, 
and  a  very  good  woman  she  was.  It  was  perhaps 
an  error  in  judgment  which  led  the  husband  of  this 
woman  to  undertake  the  establishment  of  a  hotel 
at  such  a  place  and  such  a  time,  but  he  hastened  to 
repair  his  fault  by  amiably  dying.  The  widow,  a 
large  woman,  of  great  kindness  of  heart  and  a  cer- 
tain skill  in  the  care  of  gunshot  wounds,  fell  heiress 
to  the  business,  carried  it  on  and  made  a  success  of 
it.  All  these  wild  range  men  who  came  roistering 
up  the  Trail  loved  this  large  and  kind  old  lady,  and 
she  called  them  all  her  "  boys,"  watching  over  the 
wild  brood  as  a  hen  does  over  her  chickens.  She 
fed  them  and  comforted  them,  nursed  them  and 
buried  them,  always  new  ones  coming  to  take  the 
places  of  those  who  were  gone.  Chief  mourner  at 
over  threescore  funerals,  nevertheless  was  Mother 
286 


THE  END  OF  THE  TRAIL 


287 


Daly's  voice  always  for  peace  and  decorum;  and 
what  good  she  did  may  one  day  be  discovered  when 
the  spurred  and  booted  dead  shall  rise. 

The  family  of  Mother  Daly  flourished  and 
helped  build  the  north-bound  cattle  trail,  along 
which  all  the  hoof  marks  ran  to  Ellisville.  There 
was  talk  of  other  cow  towns,  east  of  Ellisville,  west 
of  it,  but  the  clannish  conservatism  of  the  drovers 
held  to  the  town  they  had  chosen  and  baptized. 
Thus  the  family  of  Mother  Daly  kept  up  its  num- 
bers, and  the  Cottage  knew  no  night,  even  at  the 
time  when  the  wars  of  the  cowmen  with  the  rail- 
road men  and  the  gamblers  had  somewhat  worn 
away  by  reason  of  the  advancing  of  the  head  of 
the  rails  still  farther  into  the  Great  American  Desert. 

There  was  yet  no  key  to  the  Cottage  bar  when 
there  came  the  unbelievable  word  that  there  was  no 
longer  a  buffalo  to  be  found  anywhere  on  the  range, 
and  that  the  Indians  were  gone,  beaten,  herded  up 
forever.  Far  to  the  north,  it  was  declared,  there 
were  men  coming  in  on  the  cow  range  who  had 
silver-mounted  guns,  who  wore  gold  and  jewels, 
and  who  brought  with  them  saddles  without  horns ! 
It  was  said,  however,  that  these  new  men  wanted  to 
buy  cows,  so  cows  were  taken  to  them.  Many 
young  men  of  Mother  Daly's  family  went  on  up  the 
Trail,  never  to  come  back  to  Ellisville,  and  it  was 
said  that  they  were  paid  much  gold,  and  that  they 
stole  many  cows  from  the  men  who  had  silver- 


288      THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

mounted  guns,  and  who  wore  strange,  long  knives, 
with  which  it  was  difficult  to  open  a  tin  can. 

Mother  Daly  looked  upon  this,  and  it  was  well. 
She  understood  her  old  boys  and  loved  them.  She 
was  glad  the  world  was  full  of  them.  It  was  a  busy, 
happy,  active  world,  full  of  bold  deeds,  full  of  wide 
plans,  full  of  men.  She  looked  out  over  the  wide 
wind-swept  plains,  along  the  big  chutes  full  of  bel- 
lowing beeves,  at  the  wide  corral  with  its  scores  of 
saddled  Nemeses,  and  she  was  calm  and  happy.  It 
was  a  goodly  world. 

It  was  upon  one  day  that  Mother  Daly  looked 
out  upon  her  world ;  upon  the  next  day  she  looked 
again,  and  all  the  world  was  changed.  Far  as  the 
eye  could  reach,  the  long  and  dusty  roadway  of  the 
cows  lay  silent,  with  its  dust  unstirred.  Far,  very 
far  off,  there  was  approaching  a  little  band  of 
strange,  small,  bleating,  woolly  creatures,  to  whose 
driver  Mother  Daly  refused  bed  and  board.  The 
cattle  chutes  were  silent,  the  corral  was  empty.  At 
the  Cottage  bar  the  keeper  had  at  last  found  a  key 
to  the  door.  Up  and  down  the  Trail,  east  and 
west  of  the  Trail,  all  was  quiet,  bare,  and  desolate. 
At  some  signal — some  signal  written  on  the  sky 
— all  the  old  life  of  Ellisville  had  taken  up  its 
journey  into  a  farther  land,  into  another  day. 
The  cowman,  the  railroad  man,  and  the  gambling 
man  had  gone,  leaving  behind  them  the  wide  and 
well-perforated  Cottage,  the  graveyard  with  its 


THE   END   OF   THE   TRAIL 


289 


double  street,  the  cattle  chutes  with  well-worn,  hairy 
walls. 

Now  there  came  upon  the  face  of  the  country 
faint  scars  where  wheels  had  cut  into  the  hard  soil, 
these  vagrant  indices  of  travel  not  pointing  all  one 
way,  and  not  cut  deep,  as  was  the  royal  highway 
of  the  cattle,  but  crossing,  tangling,  sometimes 
blending  into  main-travelled  roads,  though  more 
often  straying  aimlessly  off  over  the  prairie  to  end 
at  the  homestead  of  some  farmer.  The  smokes 
arose  more  numerously  over  the  country,  and  the 
low  houses  of  the  settlers  were  seen  here  and  there 
on  either  hand  by  those  who  drove  out  over  the 
winding  wagon  ways  in  search  of  land.  These  new 
houses  were  dark  and  low  and  brown,  with  the 
exception  that  each  few  miles  the  traveller  might 
see  a  small  frame  house  painted  white.  Sometimes, 
in  the  early  morning,  there  might  be  seen  wander- 
ing toward  these  small  white  houses,  no  man 
knew  whence,  small  groups  of  little  beings  never 
before  seen  upon  the  range.  At  nightfall  they  wan- 
dered back  again.  Sometimes,  though  rarely,  they 
needed  to  turn  aside  from  the  straight  line  to 
go  about  the  corner  of  a  fence.  Sometimes  with- 
in such  fences  there  might  be  seen  others  of 
these  dirty,  bleating  creatures  which  Mother  Daly 
hated.  Here  and  there  over  the  country  were 
broken  rows  of  little  yellow,  faded  trees  strug- 
gling up  out  of  the  hard  earth.  The  untiring 
20 


20,o     THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

wheels  of  windmills  could  be  seen  everywhere  at 
their  work. 

Here  and  there  at  the  trodden  water  holes  of 
the  broken  creeks  there  lay  carcasses  of  perished 
cattle,  the  skin  dried  and  drawn  tight  over  the 
bones ;  but  on  the  hillsides  near  by  grazed  living 
cattle,  fatter  and  more  content  to  feed  than  the  wild 
creatures  that  yesterday  clacked  and  crowded  up  the 
Trail.  Now,  it  is  known  of  all  men  that  cattle  have 
wide  horns,  broad  as  the  span  of  a  man's  arms ;  yet 
there  were  men  here  who  said  they  had  seen  cattle 
whose  horns  were  no  longer  than  those  of  the  buf- 
falo, and  later  this  thing  was  proved  to  be  true. 

Mother  Daly  knew,  as  all  persons  in  the  past 
knew,  that  by  right  the  face  of  the  plains  was  of 
one  colour,  unbroken ;  gray-brown  in  summer, 
white  in  winter,  green  in  the  spring.  Yet  now,  as 
though  giants  would  play  here  some  game  of 
draughts,  there  came  a  change  upon  the  country, 
so  that  in  squares  it  was  gray,  in  squares  green. 
This  thing  had  never  been  before. 

In  the  town  of  Ellisville  the  great  heap  of  buf- 
falo bones  was  gone  from  the  side  of  the  railroad 
track.  There  were  many  wagons  now,  but  none 
brought  in  bones  to  pile  up  by  the  railway ;  for  even 
the  bones  of  the  buffalo  were  now  gone  forever. 

Mother  Daly  looked  out  upon  the  Cottage  cor- 
ral one  day,  and  saw  it  sound  and  strong.  Again 
she  looked,  and  the  bars  were  gone.  Yet  another 


THE   END   OF   THE   TRAIL 


29! 


day  she  looked,  and  there  was  no  corral!  Along 
the  street,  at  the  edge  of  the  sidewalks  of  boards, 
there  stood  a  long  line  of  hitching  rails.  Back  of 
these  board  sidewalks  were  merchants  who  lived  in 
houses  with  green  blinds,  and  they  pronounced  that 
word  "korrawl!" 

The  livery  barn  of  Samuel  Poston  grew  a  story 
in  stature,  and  there  was  such  a  thing  as  hay — hay 
not  imported  in  wired  bales.  In  the  little  city  there 
were  three  buildings  with  bells  above  them.  There 
was  a  courthouse  of  many  rooms ;  for  Ellisville  had 
stolen  the  county  records  from  Strong  City,  and 
had  held  them  through  Armageddon.  There  were 
large  chutes  now  at  the  railway,  not  for  cattle,  but 
for  coal.  Strange  things  appeared.  There  was  a 
wide,  low,  round,  red  house,  full  of  car  tracks,  and 
smoke,  and  hammer  blows,  and  dirt,  and  confusion ; 
and  from  these  shops  came  and  went  men  who  did 
an  unheard-of  thing.  They  worked  eight  hours  a 
day,  no  more,  no  less !  Now,  in  the  time  of  Man, 
men  worked  twenty-four  hours  a  day,  or  not  at  all ; 
and  they  did  no  man's  bidding. 

The  streets  of  Ellisville  were  many.  They 
doubled  and  crossed.  There  was  a  public  square 
hedged  about  with  trees  artificially  large.  For  each 
vanishing  saloon  there  had  come  a  store  with  its 
hitching  rack  for  teams.  The  Land  Office  was  yet 
at  Ellisville,  and  the  rush  of  settlers  was  continuous. 
The  men  who  came  out  from  the  East  wore  wide 


292 


THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 


hats  and  carried  little  guns;  but  when  they  found 
the  men  of  Ellisville  wearing  small,  dark  hats  and 
carrying  no  guns  at  all,  they  saw  that  which  was 
not  to  be  believed,  and  which  was,  therefore,  not 
so  written  in  the  literary  centres  which  told  the 
world  about  the  Ellisvilles.  Strangers  asked  Ellis- 
ville about  the  days  of  the  cattle  drive,  and  Ellisville 
raised  its  eminently  respectable  eyebrows.  There 
was  a  faint  memory  of  such  a  time,  but  it  was  long, 
long  ago.  Two  years  ago!  All  the  world  had 
changed  since  then.  There  had  perhaps  been  a 
Cottage  Hotel.  There  was  perhaps  a  Mrs.  Daly, 
who  conducted  a  boarding-house,  on  a  back  street. 
Our  best  people,  however,  lived  at  the  Stone  Hotel. 
There  were  twelve  lawyers  who  resided  at  this  hotel, 
likewise  two  ministers  and  their  wives.  Six  of  the 
lawyers  would  bring  out  their  wives  the  follow- 
ing spring.  Ministers,  of  course,  usually  took  their 
wives  with  them. 

Ellisville  had  thirty  business  houses  and  two 
thousand  inhabitants.  It  had  large  railway  shops 
and  the  division  offices  of  the  road.  It  had  two 
schoolhouses  (always  the  schoolhouse  grew  quickly 
on  the  Western  soil),  six  buildings  of  two  stories, 
two  buildings  of  three  stories  and  built  of  brick. 
Business  lots  were  worth  $1,800  to  $2,500  each. 
The  First  National  Bank  paid  $4,000  for  its  corner. 
The  Kansas  City  and  New  England  Loan,  Trust, 
and  Investment  Company  had  expended  $30,000  in 


THE  END  OF  THE  TRAIL  293 

cash  on  its  lot,  building,  and  office  fixtures.  It  had 
loaned  three  quarters  of  a  million  of  dollars  in  and 
about  Ellisville. 

Always  the  land  offered  something  to  the  set- 
tler. The  buffalo  being  gone,  and  their  bones 
being  also  gone,  some  farmers  fell  to  trapping  and 
poisoning  the  great  gray  wolves,  bringing  in  large 
bales  of  the  hides.  One  farmer  bought  half  a 
section  of  land  with  wolf  skins.  He  had  money 
enough  left  to  buy  a  few  head  of  cattle  and  to  build  a 
line  of  fence.  This  fence  cut  at  right  angles  a 
strange,  wide,  dusty  pathway.  The  farmer  did  not 
know  what  he  had  done.  He  had  put  restraint  on 
that  which  in  its  day  knew  no  pause  and  brooked  no 
hindrance.  He  had  set  metes  and  bounds  across 
the  track  where  once  rolled  the  wheels  of  destiny. 
He  had  set  the  first  fence  across  the  Trail ! 

The  stranger  who  asked  for  the  old,  wild  days 
of  Ellisville  the  Red  was  told  that  no  such  days 
had  ever  been.  Yet  stay :  perhaps  there  were  half  a 
dozen  men  who  had  lived  at  Ellisville  from  the  first 
who  could,  perhaps,  take  one  to  the  boarding-house 
of  Mrs.  Daly;  who  could,  perhaps,  tell  something 
of  the  forgotten  days  of  the  past,  the  days  of  two 
years  ago,  before  the  present  population  of  Ellisville 
came  West.  There  was,  perhaps,  a  graveyard,  but 
the  headstones  had  been  so  few  that  one  could  tell 
but  little  of  it  now.  Much  of  this,  no  doubt,  was 
exaggeration,  this  talk  of  a  graveyard,  of  a  doubled 


294 


THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY   HOUSE 


street,  of  murders,  of  the  legal  killings  which  served 
as  arrests,  of  the  lynchings  which  once  passed  as 
justice.  There  was  a  crude  story  of  the  first  court 
ever  held  in  Ellisville,  but  of  course  it  was  mere 
libel  to  say  that  it  was  held  in  the  livery  barn.  Ru- 
mour said  that  the  trial  was  over  the  case  of  a  negro, 
or  Mexican,  or  Indian,  who  had  been  charged  with 
murder,  and  who  was  himself  killed  in  an  attempt 
at  lynching,  by  whose  hand  its  was  never  known. 
These  things  were  remembered  or  talked  about  by 
but  very  few,  these  the  old-timers,  the  settlers  of 
two  years  ago.  Somewhere  to  the  north  of  the 
town,  and  in  the  centre  of  what  was  declared  by 
some  persons  to  be  the  old  cattle  trail,  there  was  re- 
puted to  be  visible  a  granite  boulder,  or  perhaps  it 
was  a  granite  shaft,  supposed  to  have  been  erected 
with  money  contributed  by  cattlemen  at  the  re- 
quest of  Mrs.  Daly,  who  kept  the  boarding-house 
on  a  back  street.  Some  one  had  seen  this  monu- 
ment, and  brought  back  word  that  it  had  cut  upon 
its  face  a  singular  inscription,  namely: 


JUAN   THE  LOCO, 

THE   END   OF  THE   TRAIL. 


This  matter  was,  of  course,  not  understood  by 
all,  nor  did  many  concern  themselves  therewith, 


THE   END   OF   THE   TRAIL 


295 


men  being  now  too  busy  working  eight  hours  a 
day.  It  was  generally  supposed  to  refer  to  some- 
thing that  had  happened  in  the  days  when  Ellisville 
was  wrongfully  alleged  to  have  been  a  cow  town — 
a  day  far  back  in  the  past,  in  the  time  of  Two  Years 
ago. 


CHAPTER   XXXI 

THE   SUCCESS   OF   BATTERSLEIGH 

ONE  morning  when  Franklin  entered  his  office 
he  found  his  friend  Battersleigh  there  before  him, 
in  full  possession,  and  apparently  at  peace  with  all 
the  world.  His  tall  figure  was  reclining  in  an  office 
chair,  and  his  feet  were  supported  by  the  corner 
of  the  table,  in  an  attitude  which  is  called  Ameri- 
can, but  which  is  really  only  masculine,  and  quite 
rational  though  unbeautiful.  Battersleigh's  cloak 
had  a  swagger  in  its  very  back,  and  his  hat  sat  at  a 
cocky  angle  not  to  be  denied.  He  did  not  hear 
Franklin  as  he  approached  the  door,  and  the  latter 
stood  looking  in  for  a  moment,  amused  at  Batters- 
leigh and  his  attitude  and  his  song.  When  quite 
happy  Battersleigh  always  sang,  and  very  often  his 
song  was  the  one  he  was  singing  now,  done  in  a  low 
nasal,  each  verse  ending,  after  the  vocal  fashion  of 
his  race,  with  a  sudden  uplift  of  a  sheer  octave,  as 
thus: 

"  I-I-I-'d  dance  11-i-i-ke  a  fa-a-a-iree-ee-ee, 

For  to  see  ould  Dunlear-e-e-e-e-e  ! 
I-I-I-'d  think  twi-i-i-ice  e-e-e-r-r  I-I-I-'d  lave  it, 
For  to  be-e-e-e-e  a  drag-<?-0-«." 
296 


THE  SUCCESS  OF  BATTERSLEIGH  297 

Franklin  chuckled  at  the  reminiscent  music  as 
he  stepped  in  and  said  good  morning.  "  You  seem 
in  fine  fettle  this  morning,  friend,"  said  he.  "  Very 
fine,  for  an  old  man." 

Battersleigh  squared  around  and  looked  at  him 
soberly.  "Ned,"  said  he,  "  ye're  a  dethractor  of 
innycince.  Batty  ould!  Listen  to  me,  boy!  It's 
fifty  years  younger  I  am  to-day  than  when  I  saw  ye 
last.  I'm  younger  than  ye  ivver  saw  me  in  all  your 
life  before." 

"  And  what  and  where  was  the  fountain?"  said 
Franklin,  as  he  seated  himself  at  his  desk. 

"  The  one  fountain  of  all  on  earth,  me  boy — 
Succiss — succiss!  The  two  dearest  things  of  life 
are  Succiss  and  Revinge.  I've  found  thim  both. 
Shure,  pfwhat  is  that  gives  one  man  the  lofty  air  an* 
the  overlookin'  eye,  where  another  full  his  ekil  in 
inches  fears  to  draw  the  same  breath  o'  life  with 
him?  Succiss,  succiss,  me  boy!  Some  calls  it 
luck,  though  most  lays  it  to  their  own  shupayrior 
merit.  For  Batty,  he  lays  it  to  nothin'  whativver, 
but  takes  it  like  a  philosopher  an'  a  gintleman." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  you  don't  mind  my  congratu- 
lating you  on  your  success,  whatever  it  may  be," 
said  Franklin,  as  he  began  to  busy  himself  about  his 
work  at  the  desk.  "  You're  just  a  trifle  mysterious, 
you  know." 

"  There's  none  I'd  liever  have  shake  me  by  the 
hand  than  yoursilf,  Ned,"  said  Battersleigh,  "  the 


298     THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

more  especially  by  this  rayson,  that  ye've  niwer 
believed  in  ould  Batty  at  all,  but  thought  him  a 
visionary  schamer,  an'  no  more.  Didn't  ye,  now, 
Ned ;  on  your  honour  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Franklin  stoutly.  "I've  always 
known  you  to  be  the  best  fellow  in  the  world." 

"  Tut,  tut !  "  said  Battersleigh.  "  Ye're  dodgin' 
the  issue,  boy.  But  pfwhat  wud  ye  say  now,  Ned, 
if  I  should  till  ye  I'd  made  over  tin  thousand 
pounds  of  good  English  money  since  I  came  to  this 
little  town  ?  " 

"  I  should  say,"  said  Franklin  calmly,  as  he 
opened  an  envelope,  "  that  you  had  been  dream- 
ing again." 

"That's  it!  That's  it!"  cried  Battersleigh. 
"  Shure  ye  wud,  an'  I  knew  it !  But  come  with  me 
to  bank  this  mornin'  an'  I'll  prove  it  all  to  ye." 

Something  in  his  voice  made  Franklin  wheel 
around  and  look  at  him.  "  Oh,  do  be  serious,  Bat- 
tersleigh," said  he. 

"  It's  sayrious  I  am,  Ned,  I  till  ye.  Luk  at  me, 
boy.  Do  ye  not  see  the  years  droppin'  from  me? 
Succiss!  Revinge!  Cash!  Earth  holds  no  more 
for  Batty.  I've  thim  all,  an'  I'm  contint.  This 
night  I  retire  dhrunk,  as  a  gintleman  should  be. 
To-morrow  I  begin  on  me  wardrobe.  I'm  goin' 
a  longish  journey,  lad,  back  to  ould  England.  I'm 
a  long-lost  son,  an'  thank  God!  I've  not  been  dis- 
covered yit,  an'  hope  I'll  not  be  fer  a  time. 


THE  SUCCESS  OF  BATTERSLEIGH 


299 


"I'll  till  ye  a  secret,  which  heretofore  I've  al- 
ways neglicted  to  mintion  to  anybody.  Here  I'm 
Henry  Battersleigh,  agent  of  the  British-American 
Colonization  Society.  On  t'other  side  I  might  be 
Cuthbert  Allen  Wingate-Galt.  An'  Etcetera,  man ; 
etcetera,  to  God  knows  what.  Don't  mintion  it, 
Ned,  till  I've  gone  away,  fer  I've  loved  the  life  here 
so — I've  so  enjoyed  bein'  just  Batty,  agent,  and  so 
forth!  Belave  me,  Ned,  it's  much  ccmfortabler  to 
be  merely  a'  And-so-forth  thin  it  is  to  be  an'  Et- 
cetera. An3  I've  loved  ye  so,  Ned!  Ye're  the 
noblest  nobleman  I  ivver  knew  or  ivver  expict  to 
know." 

Franklin  sat  gazing  at  him  without  speech,  and 
presently  Battersleigh  went  on. 

"It's  a  bit  of  a  story,  lad,"  said  he  kindly. 
"  Ye  see,  I've  been  a  poor  man  all  me  life,  ye 
may  say,  though  the  nephew  of  one  of  the  richest 
women  in  the  United  Kingdom — an'  the  stingiest. 
Instid  of  doin'  her  obvayus  juty  an'  supportin'  her 
nephew  in  becomin'  station,  she  marries  a  poor 
little  lordlet  boy,  an'  forsakes  me  entirely.  Wasn't 
it  hijjus  of  her?  There  may  have  been  raysons 
satisfyin'  to  her  own  mind,  but  she  niwer  con- 
vinced me  that  it  was  Christian  conduct  on  her  part. 
So  I  wint  with  the  Rile  Irish,  and  fought  fer  the 
Widdy.  So  what  with  likin'  the  stir  an'  at  the  same 
time  the  safety  an'  comfort  o'  the  wars,  an'  what 
with  now  an'  thin  a  flirtashun  in  wan  colour  or  an- 


3oo     THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

other  o'  the  human  rainbow,  with  a  bit  of  sport  an* 
ridin'  enough  to  kape  me  waist,  I've  been  in  the 
Rile  Irish  ivver  since — whin  not  somewhere  ilse; 
though  mostly,  Ned,  me  boy,  stone  broke,  an'  own- 
in*  no  more  than  me  bed  an'  me  arms.  Ye  know 
this,  Ned." 

"  Yes,"  said  Franklin,  "  I  know,  Battersleigh. 
YouVe  been  a  proud  one." 

"  Tut,  tut,  me  boy ;  nivver  mind.  Ye'll  know 
I  came  out  here  to  make  me  fortune,  there  bein' 
no  more  fightin'  daycint  enough  to  engage  the 
attention  of  a  gintleman  annywhere  upon  the 
globe.  I  came  to  make  me  fortune.  An*  I've 
made  it.  An'  I  confiss  to  ye  with  contrition,  Ned, 
me  dear  boy,  I'm  Cubberd  Allen  Wiggit-Galt,  Et- 
cetera!" 

After  his  fashion  Franklin  sat  silent,  waiting  for 
the  other's  speech. 

"Ned,"  said  Battersleigh  at  length,  "till  me, 
who's  the  people  of  the  intire  worrld  that  has  the 
most  serane  belief  in  their  own  shupayriority  ?  " 

"  New-Yorkers,"  said  Franklin  calmly. 

"  Wrong.  Ye  mustn't  joke,  me  boy.  No.  It's 
the  English.  Shure,  they're  the  consatedest  people 
in  the  whole  worrld.  An'  now,  thin,  who's  the 
wisest  people  in  the  worrld  ?  " 

"  The  Americans,"  said  Franklin  promptly 
again. 

"  Wrong  agin.     It's  thim  same  d d  domi- 


THE  SUCCESS  OF  BATTERSLEIGH  30! 

neerin'  idjits,  the  yally-headed  subjecks  o'  the  Wid- 
dy.  An'  pfwhy  are  they  wise  ?  " 

"  You'll  have  to  tell,"  said  Franklin. 

"Then  I'll  till  ye.  It's  because  they  have  a 
sacra  fames  fer  all  the  land  on  earth." 

"  They're  no  worse  than  we,"  said  Franklin. 
"  Look  at  our  Land-Office  records  here  for  the  past 
year." 

"  Yis,  the  Yankee  is  a  land-lover,  but  he  wants 
land  so  that  he  may  live  on  it,  an'  he  wants  to  see 
it  before  he  gives  his  money  for  it.  Now,  ye  go 
to  an  Englishman,  an'  till  him  ye've  a  bit  of  land 
in  the  cintre  of  a  lost  island  in  the  middle  of  the 
Pacific  say,  an'  pfwhat  does  he  do?  He'll  first  thry 
to  stale  ut,  thin  thry  to  bully  ye  out  of  ut ;  but  he'll 
ind  by  buyin'  ut,  at  anny  price  ye've  conscience  to 
ask,  an'  he'll  thrust  to  Providence  to  be  able  to 
find  the  island  some  day.  That's  wisdom.  I've  seen 
the  worrld,  me  boy,  from  Injy  to  the  Great  Ameri- 
can Desert.  The  Rooshan  an'  the  Frinchman  want 
land,  as  much  land  as  ye'll  cover  with  a  kerchief, 
but  once  they  get  it  they're  contint.  The  Haybrew 
cares  for  nothin'  beyond  the  edge  of  his  counter. 
Now,  me  Angly-Saxon,  he's  the  prettiest  fightin' 
man  on  earth,  an'  he's  fightin'  fer  land,  er  buyin' 
land,  er  stalin'  land,  the  livin'  day  an'  cintury  on 
ind.  He'll  own  the  earth !  " 

"  No  foreign  Anglo-Saxon  will  ever  own  Amer- 
ica," said  Franklin  grimly. 


3Q2     THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

"  Well,  I'm  tellin'  ye  he'll  be  ownin'  some  o'  this 
land  around  here." 

"  I  infer,  Battersleigh,"  said  Franklin,  "  that  you 
have  made  a  sale." 

"  Well,  yis.     A  small  matter." 

"  A  quarter-section  or  so  ?  " 

"A  quarter -township  or  so  wud  be  much 
nearer,"  said  Battersleigh  dryly. 

"You  don't  mean  it?" 

"  Shure  I  do.  It's  a  fool  for  luck ;  allowin' 
Batty's  a  fool,  as  ye've  always  thought,  though  I've 
denied  it.  Now  ye  know  the  railroad's  crazy  for 
poppylation,  an'  it  can't  wait.  It  fairly  offers  land 
free  to  thim  that'll  come  live  on  it.  It  asks  the  suf- 
frin'  pore  o'  Yurrup  to  come  an'  honour  us  with 
their  prisince.  The  railroad  offers  Batty  the  Fool 
fifteen  hundred  acres  o'  land  at  three  dollars  the 
acre,  if  Batty  the  Fool'll  bring  settlers  to  it.  So 
I  sinds  over  to  me  ould  Aunt's  country — not,  ye 
may  suppose,  over  the  signayture  o'  Cubberd  Allen 
Wiggit-Galt,  but  as  Henry  Battersleigh,  agent  o' 
the  British  American  Colonization  Society — an'  I 
says  to  the  proper  party  there,  says  I,  '  I've  fif- 
teen hundred  acres  o'  the  loveliest  land  that  ivver 
lay  out  of  dures,  an'  ye  may  have  it  for  the  trifle 
o'  fifty  dollars  the  acre.  Offer  it  to  the  Leddy 
Wiggit,'  says  I  to  him ;  *  she's  a  philanthropist,  an* 
is  fer  Bettherin'  the  Pore '  ('  savin'  pore  nephews/ 
says  I  to  mesilf).  '  The  Lady  Wiggit,'  says  I, '  '11  be 


THE  SUCCESS  OF  BATTERSLEIGH  303 

sendin'  a  ship  load  oy  pore  tinnints  over  here/  says 
I,  '  an'  she'll  buy  this  land.  Offer  it  to  her/  says  I. 
So  he  did.  So  she  did.  She  tuk  it.  I'll  be  away 
before  thim  pisints  o'  hers  comes  over  to  settle  here, 
glory  be!  Now,  wasn't  it  aisy?  There's  no  fools 
like  the  English  over  land,  me  boy.  An'  'twas  a 
simple  judgment  on  me  revered  Aunt,  the  Leddy 
Wiggit." 

"  But,  Battersleigh,  look  here,"  said  Franklin, 
"  you  talk  of  fifty  dollars  an  acre.  That's  all  non- 
sense— why,  that's  robbery.  Land  is  dear  here  at 
five  dollars  an  acre." 

"  Shure  it  is,  Ned,"  said  Battersleigh  calmly. 
"  But  it's  chape  in  England  at  fifty  dollars." 

"  Well,  but " 

"  An'  that's  not  all.  I  wrote  to  thim  to  send  me 
a  mere  matter  of  tin  dollars  an  acre,  as  ivvidence  o' 
good  faith.  They  did  so,  an'  it  was  most  convay- 
nient  for  settlin'  the  little  bill  o'  three  dollars  an  acre 
which  the  railroad  had  against  me,  Batty  the  Fool." 

"  It's  robbery !  "  reiterated  Franklin. 

"  It  wud  'av'  been  robbery,"  said  Battersleigh, 
"  had  they  sint  no  more  than  that,  for  I'd  'av'  been 
defrauded  of  me  just  jues.  But  whut  do  you  think  ? 
The  murdherin'  ould  fool,  me  revered  Aunt,  the 
Leddy  Wiggit,  she  grows  'feard  there  is  some  intint 
to  rob  her  of  her  bargain,  so  what  does  she  do  but 
sind  the  entire  amount  at  wance — not  knowin',  bless 
me  heart  an'  soul,  that  she's  thus  doin'  a  distin- 


304     THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

guished  kindness  to  the  missin'  relative  she's  long 
ago  forgot!  Man,  would  ye  call  that  robbery? 
It's  Divine  Providince,  no  less!  It's  justice.  I 
know  of  no  one  more  deservin'  o'  such  fortune  than 
Battersleigh,  late  of  the  Rile  Irish,  an'  now  a  Citizen 
o'  the  World.  Gad,  but  I've  a'most  a  mind  to  buy 
a  bit  of  land  me  own  silf,  an'  marry  the  Maid  o'  the 
Mill,  fer  the  sake  o'  roundin'  out  the  play.  Man, 
man,  it's  happy  I  am  to-day !  " 

"  It  looks  a  good  deal  like  taking  advantage 
of  another's  ignorance,"  said  Franklin  argumenta- 
tively. 

"  Sir,"  said  Battersleigh,  "  it's  takin'  advantage 
o'  their  Wisdom.  The  land's  worth  it,  as  you'll  see 
yoursilf  in  time.  The  price  is  naught.  The  great 
fact  is  that  they  who  own  the  land  own  the  earth  and 
its  people.  'Tis  out  of  the  land  an'  the  sea  an'  the 
air  that  all  the  wilth  must  come.  Thus  saith  Batty 
the  Fool.  Annyhow,  the  money's  in  the  bank,  an' 
it's  proper  dhrunk'll  be  Batty  the  Fool  this  night, 
an'  likewise  the  Hon.  Cubberd  Allen  Wiggit-Galt, 
Etcetera.  There's  two  of  me  now,  an'  it's  twice  the 
amount  I  must  be  dhrinkin'.  I  swear,  I  feel  a  thirst 
risin'  that  minds  me  o'  Ingy  in  the  hills,  an'  the  mess 
o'  the  Rile  Irish  wance  again." 

"  You'll  be  going  away,"  said  Franklin,  sadly, 
as  he  rose  and  took  Battersleigh  by  the  hand. 
"  You'll  be  going  away  and  leaving  me  here  alone — 
awfully  alone." 


THE  SUCCESS  OF  BATTERSLEIGH  305 

"  Ned,"  said  the  tall  Irishman,  rising  and  laying 
a  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  "  don't  ye  belave  I'll  be 
lavin'  ye.  I've  seen  the  worrld,  an'  I  must  see  it 
again,  but  wance  in  a  while  I'll  be  comin'  around 
here  to  see  the  best  man's  country  on  the  globe,  an* 
to  meet  agin  the  best  man  I  ivver  knew.  I'll  not 
till  why  I  belave  it,  for  that  I  can  not  do,  but  shure 
I  do  belave  it,  this  is  the  land  for  you.  There'll  be 
workin'  an'  thinkin'  here  afther  you  an'  Batty  are 
gone,  an'  maybe  they'll  work  out  the  joy  an'  sorrow 
of  ut  here.  Don't  be  restless,  but  abide,  an'  take 
ye  root  here.  For  Batty,  it's  no  odds.  He's  seen 
the  worrld." 

Battersleigh's  words  caused  Franklin's  face  to 
grow  still  more  grave,  and  his  friend  saw  and  sus- 
pected the  real  cause.  "  Tut,  tut !  me  boy,"  he  said, 
"  I  well  know  how  your  wishes  lie.  It's  a  noble 
gyurl  ye've  chosen,  as  a  noble  man  should  do.  She 
may  change  her  thought  to-morrow.  It's  change 
is  the  wan  thing  shure  about  a  woman." 

Franklin  shook  his  head  mutely,  but  Batters- 
leigh  showed  only  impatience  with  him.  "  Go  on 
with  your  plans,  man,"  said  he,  "  an'  pay  no  attin- 
tion  to  the  gyurl !  Make  ready  the  house  and  pre- 
pare the  bridal  gyarments.  Talk  with  her  ray  son- 
able,  an'  thin  thry  unraysonable,  and  if  she  won't 
love  ye  peaceful,  thin  thry  force;  an'  she'll  folly 
ye  thin,  to  the  ind  of  the  earth,  an*  love  ye  like 
a  lamb.  It's  Batty  has  studied  the  sex.  Now, 


306     THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

wance  there  was  a  gyurl — but  no;  I'll  not  yet 
thrust  mesilf  to  spake  o'  that.  God  rist  her  asy 
ivermore ! " 

"  Yes,"  said  Franklin  sadly,  "  that  is  it.  That 
is  what  my  own  answer  has  been.  She  tells  me  that 
there  was  once  another,  who  no  longer  lives — that 
no  one  else " 

Battersleigh's  face  grew  grave  in  turn.  "  There's 
no  style  of  assault  more  difficult  than  that  same," 
said  he.  "  Yet  she's  young ;  she  must  have  been 
very  young.  With  all  respect,  it's  the  nature  o'  the 
race  o'  women  to  yield  to  the  livin',  breathin'  man 
above  the  dead  an'  honoured." 

"  I  had  my  hopes,"  said  Franklin,  "  but  they're 
gone.  They've  been  doing  well  at  the  Halfway 
House,  and  I've  been  doing  well  here.  I've  made 
more  money  than  I  ever  thought  I  should,  and  I 
presume  I  may  make  still  more.  I  presume  that's 
all  there  is — just  to  make  money,  and  then  more, 
if  you  can.  Let  it  go  that  way.  I'll  not  wear  my 
heart  on  my  sleeve — not  for  any  woman  in  the 
world." 

Franklin's  jaws  set  in  fashion  still  more  stern 
than  their  usual  cast,  yet  there  had  come,  as  Batters- 
leigh  did  not  fail  to  notice,  an  older  droop  to  the 
corners  of  his  mouth,  and  a  loss  of  the  old  brilliance 
of  the  eye. 

"  Spoken  like  a  man,"  said  Battersleigh,  "  an*  if 
ye'll  stick  to  that  ye're  the  more  like  to  win.  Niv- 


THE  SUCCESS  OF  BATTERSLEIGH  307 

ver  chance  follyin'  too  close  in  a  campaign  ag'inst  a 
woman.  Parallel  an'  mine,  but  don't  uncover  your 
forces.  If  ye  advance,  do  so  by  rushes,  an'  not  feel- 
in'  o'  the  way.  But  tin  to  wan,  if  ye  lie  still  under 
cover,  she'll  be  sendin'  out  skirmishers  to  see  where 
ye  are  an'  what  ye  are  doin'.  Now,  ye  love  the 
gyurl,  I  know,  an'  so  do  I,  an'  so  does  ivery  man 
that  ivver  saw  her,  for  she's  the  sort  min  can't  help 
adorin'.  But,  mind  me,  kape  away.  Don't  write 
to  her.  Don't  make  poetry  about  her — God  forbid ! 
Don't  do  the  act  o'  serrynadin'  in  anny  way  what- 
ivver.  Make  no  complaint — if  ye  do  she'll  hate  ye, 
like  as  not;  for  when  a  gyurl  has  wronged  a  man 
she  hates  him  for  it.  Merely  kape  still.  Ye've  met 
your  first  reverse,  an'  ye've  had  your  outposts  cut 
up  a  bit,  an*  ye  think  the  ind  o'  the  worrld  has  come. 
Now,  mind  me,  ould  Batty,  who's  seen  the  lands; 
only  do  ye  attind  to  dhrill  an*  sinthry-go  an'  com- 
missariat, till  in  time  ye  find  your  forces  in  thrim 
again.  By  thin  luk  out  fer  heads  stickin'  up  over 
the  hills  on  the  side  o'  the  inimy,  who'll  be  won- 
derin'  what's  goin'  on.  *  Go  'way,'  she  says  to  you, 
an'  you  go.  '  Come  back/  she  whispers  to  herself, 
an'  you  don't  hear  it.  Yet  all  the  time  she's  won- 
derin'  pfwhy  you  don't !  " 

Franklin  smiled  in  spite  of  himself.  "  Batters- 
leigh's  Tactics  and  Manual  of  Strategy,"  he  mur- 
mured. "  All  right,  old  man.  I  thank  you  just  the 
same.  I  presume  I'll  live,  at  the  worst.  And 


308     THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

there's  a  bit  in  life  besides  what  we  want  for  our- 
selves, you  know." 

"  There's  naught  in  life  but  what  we're  ready 
to  take  for  oursilves ! "  cried  Battersleigh.  "  I'll 
talk  no  fable  of  other  fishes  in  the  say  for  ye.  Take 
what  ye  want,  if  ye'll  have  it.  An'  hearken ;  there's 
more  to  Ned  Franklin  than  bein'  a  land  agent  and  a 
petty  lawyer.  It's  not  for  ye  yersilf  to  sit  an'  mope, 
neyther  to  spind  your  life  diggin'  in  a  musty  desk. 
Ye're  to  grow,  man ;  ye're  to  grow !  Do  ye  not  feel 
the  day  an'  hour?  Man,  did  ye  nivver  think  o' 
Destiny?" 

"  I've  never  been  able  not  to  believe  in  it,"  said 
Franklin.  "  To  some  men  all  things  come  easily, 
while  others  get  on  only  by  the  hardest  knocks; 
and  some  go  always  close  to  success,  but  die  just 
short  of  the  parapet.  I  haven't  myself  classified, 
just  yet." 

"  Ye  have  your  dreams,  boy  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  have  my  dreams." 

"  All  colours  are  alike,"  said  Battersleigh. 
"  Now,  whut  is  my  young  Injun  savage  doin',  when 
he  goes  out  alone,  on  top  of  some  high  hill,  an* 
builds  him  a  little  fire,  an'  talks  with  his  familiar 
spirits,  which  he  calls  here  his  '  drame '  ?  Isn't  he 
searchin'  an'  feelin'  o'  himsilf,  same  as  the  haythin 
in  far-away  Ingy  ?  Git  your  nose  up,  Ned,  or  you'll 
be  unwittin'  classifyin'  yersilf  with  the  great  slave 
class  which  we  lift  behind  not  long  ago,  but  which 


THE  SUCCESS  OF  BATTERSLEIGH 


309 


is  follyin'  us  hard  and  far.  Git  your  nose  up,  fer  it's 
Batty  has  been  thinkin'  ye've  Destiny  inside  your 
skin.  Listen  to  Batty  the  Fool,  and  search  your 
sowl.  I'll  tell  ye  this :  I've  the  feelin'  that  I'll  be 
hearin'  of  ye,  in  all  the  marrches  o'  the  worrld. 
Don't  disappoint  me,  Ned,  for  the  ould  man  has  be- 
laved  in  ye — more  than  ye've  belaved  in  yersilf. 
As  to  the  gyurl — bah ! — go  marry  her  some  day,  av 
ye've  nothin'  more  importhant  on  yer  hands. 

"  But,  me  dear  boy,  spakin'  o'  importhant  things, 
I  ralely  must  be  goin'  now.  I've  certain  importhant 
preparations  that  are  essintial  before  I  get  dhrunk 
this  avenin' " 

"  O  Battersleigh,  do  be  sensible,"  said  Frank- 
lin, "and  do  give  up  this  talk  of  getting  drunk. 
Come  over  here  this  evening  and  talk  with  me.  It's 
much  better  than  getting  drunk." 

Battersleigh's  hand  was  on  the  door  knob. 
"  The  consate  o'  you !  "  he  said.  "  Thrue,  ye're  a 
fine  boy,  Ned,  an'  I  know  of  no  conversayshun  more 
entertainin'  than  yer  own,  but  I  fale  that  if  I  didn't 
get  dhrunk  like  a  gintleman  this  avenin',  I'd  be  vio- 
latin'  me  juty  to  me  own  conscience,  as  well  as  set- 
tin'  at  naught  the  thraditions  o'  the  Rile  Irish.  An' 
so,  if  ye'll  just  excuse  me,  I'll  say  good-bye  till,  say, 
to-morrow  noon." 


CHAPTER   XXXII 

THE   CALLING 

AND  now  there  still  fared  on  the  swift,  sane 
empire  of  the  West.  The  rapid  changes,  the  striv- 
ings, the  accomplishments,  the  pretensions  and  the 
failures  of  the  new  town  blended  in  the  product  of 
human  progress.  Each  man  fell  into  his  place  in 
the  community  as  though  appointed  thereto,  and  the 
eyes  of  all  were  set  forward.  There  was  no  retro- 
spection, there  were  no  imaginings,  no  fears,  no 
disbeliefs.  The  people  were  as  ants,  busy  building 
their  hill,  underletting  it  with  galleries,  furnishing 
it  with  chambers,  storing  it  with  riches,  providing 
it  with  defences ;  yet  no  individual  ant  looked  be- 
yond his  own  antennae,  or  dreamed  that  there  might 
be  significance  in  the  tiny  footprints  which  he  left. 
There  were  no  philosophers  to  tell  these  busy  actors 
that  they  were  puppets  in  a  great  game,  ants  in  a 
giant  hill.  They  lived,  loved,  and  multiplied; 
which,  after  all,  is  Life. 

To  Franklin  the  days  and  months  and  years  went 
by  unpunctuated,  his  life  settling  gradually  into  the 
routine  of  an  unhappy  calm.  He  neglected  too 
310 


THE   CALLING 

much  the  social  side  of  life,  and  rather  held  to  his 
old  friends  than  busied  himself  with  the  search  for 
new.  Battersleigh  was  gone,  swiftly  and  mysteri- 
ously gone,  though  with  the  promise  to  return  and 
with  the  reiteration  of  his  advice  and  his  well  wishes. 
Curly  was  gone — gone  up  the  Trail  into  a  far  and 
mysterious  country,  though  he,  too,  promised  to  re- 
member Ellisville,  and  had  given  hostage  for  his 
promise.  His  friends  of  the  Halfway  House  were 
gone,  for  though  he  heard  of  them  and  knew  them 
to  be  prosperous,  he  felt  himself,  by  reason  of  Mary 
Ellen's  decision,  in  propriety  practically  withdrawn 
from  their  personal  acquaintance.  Of  the  kaleido- 
scope of  the  oncoming  civilization  his  eye  caught 
but  little.  There  had  again  fallen  upon  his  life  a 
season  of  blight,  or  self-distrust,  of  dull  dissatisfac- 
tion with  the  world  and  with  living.  As  in  earlier 
years  he  had  felt  unrest  and  known  the  lack  of  set- 
tled purpose,  so  now,  after  having  seen  all  things 
apparently  set  in  order  before  him  for  progressive 
accomplishment,  he  had  fallen  back  once  more  into 
that  state  of  disbelief,  of  that  hopeless  and  desperate 
awakening  properly  reserved  only  for  old  age,  when 
the  individual  realizes  that  what  he  does  is  of  itself 
of  no  consequence,  and  that  what  he  is  or  is  not 
stops  no  single  star  an  atom  in  its  flight,  no  blade 
of  grass  an  iota  in  its  growing. 

Paralysis  of  the  energies  too  often  follows  upon 
such    self-revelations;    and    indeed   it    seemed   to 


312     THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

Franklin  that  he  had  suffered  some  deep  and  deadly 
benumbing  of  his  faculties.  He  could  not  welcome 
the  new  days.  His  memory  was  set  rather  on  the 
old  days,  so  recent  and  in  some  way  so  dear.  He 
loved  the  forgotten  thundej  of  the  buffalo,  but  in 
his  heart  there  rose  no  exultation  at  the  rumble  of 
the  wheels.  Still  conscientious,  he  plodded,  nor  did 
he  cease  to  aspire  even  in  his  own  restricted  avoca- 
tions. Because  of  his  level  common  sense,  which 
is  the  main  ingredient  in  the  success-portion,  he 
went  easily  into  the  first  councils  of  the  community. 
Joylessly  painstaking  and  exact,  he  still  prospered 
in  what  simple  practice  of  the  law  there  offered,  act- 
ing as  counsel  for  the  railway,  defending  a  rare 
criminal  case,  collecting  accounts,  carrying  on  title 
contests  and  "  adverse  "  suits  in  the  many  cases  be- 
fore the  Register  of  the  Land  Office,  and  performing 
all  the  simple  humdrum  of  the  busy  country  lawyer. 
He  made  more  and  more  money,  since  at  that  time 
one  of  his  position  and  opportunities  could  hardly 
avoid  doing  so.  His  place  in  the  business  world 
was  assured.  He  had  no  occasion  for  concern. 

For  most  men  this  would  have  been  prosperity 
sufficient ;  yet  never  did  Edward  Franklin  lie  down 
with  the  long  breath  of  the  man  content ;  and  ever 
in  his  dreams  there  came  the  vague  beckoning  of  a 
hand  still  half  unseen.  Once  this  disturbing  sum- 
mons to  his  life  was  merely  disquieting  and  unfor- 
niulated,  but  gradually  now  it  assumed  a  shape 


THE  CALLING  313 

more  urgent  and  more  definite.  Haunting  him 
with  the  sense  of  the  unfulfilled,  the  face  of  Mary 
Ellen  was  ever  in  the  shadow ;  of  Mary  Ellen,  who 
had  sent  him  away  forever;  of  Mary  Ellen,  who 
was  wasting  her  life  on  a  prairie  ranch,  with  naught 
to  inspire  and  none  to  witness  the  flowering  of  her 
soul.  That  this  rare  plant  should  thus  fail  and 
wither  seemed  to  him  a  crime  quite  outside  his  own 
personal  concern.  This  unreal  Mary  Ellen,  this 
daily  phantom,  which  hung  faces  on  bare  walls 
and  put  words  between  the  lines  of  law  books, 
seemed  to  have  some  message  for  him.  Yet  had  he 
not  had  his  final  message  from  the  actual  Mary 
Ellen?  And,  after  all,  did  anything  really  matter 
any  more? 

So  much  for  the  half-morbid  frame  of  mind  due 
for  the  most  part  to  the  reflex  of  a  body  made  sick 
by  an  irregular  and  irrational  life.  This  much,  too, 
Franklin  could  have  established  of  his  own  philoso- 
phy. Yet  this  was  not  all,  nor  was  the  total  so 
easily  to  be  explained  a*way. 

Steadily,  and  with  an  insistence  somewhat  horri- 
ble, there  came  to  Franklin's  mind  a  feeling  that  this 
career  which  he  saw  before  him  would  not  always 
serve  to  satisfy  him.  Losing  no  touch  of  the  demo- 
cratic loyalty  to  his  fellow-men,  he  none  the  less 
clearly  saw  himself  in  certain  ways  becoming  inex- 
orably separated  from  his  average  fellow-man.  The 
executive  instinct  was  still  as  strong  within  him, 

31 


314     THE  GIRL  AT  THE   HALFWAY  HOUSE 

but  he  felt  it  more  creative,  and  he  longed  for  finer 
material  than  the  seamy  side  of  man's  petty  strifes 
with  man,  made  possible  under  those  artificial  laws 
which  marked  man's  compromise  with  Nature.  He 
found  no  solace  and  no  science  in  the  study  of  the 
great  or  the  small  crimes  of  an  artificial  system 
which  did  not  touch  individual  humanity,  and  which 
was  careless  of  humanity's  joys  or  sorrowings. 
Longing  for  the  satisfying,  for  the  noble  things,  he 
found  himself  irresistibly  facing  toward  the  past,  and 
irresistibly  convinced  that  in  that  past,  as  in  the 
swiftly  marching  present,  there  might  be  some  les- 
son, not  ignoble  and  not  uncomforting.  Horrified 
that  he  could  not  rest  in  the  way  that  he  had  chosen, 
distracted  at  these  intangible  desires,  he  doubted  at 
times  his  perfect  sanity ;  for  though  it  seemed  there 
was  within  him  the  impulse  to  teach  and  to  create, 
he  could  not  say  to  himself  what  or  how  was  to  be 
the  form,  whether  mental  or  material,  of  the  thing 
created,  the  thing  typified,  the  thing  which  he  would 
teach. 

Of  such  travail,  of  such  mould,  have  come  great 
architects,  great  engineers,  great  writers,  musicians, 
painters,  indeed  great  men  of  affairs,  beings  who 
stand  by  the  head  and  shoulders  above  other  men 
as  leaders.  The  nature  of  such  men  is  not  always 
at  the  first  assured,  the  imprimitive  seal  not  always 
surely  set  on,  so  that  of  one  thus  tormented  of  his 
inner  self  it  may  be  mere  accident  which  shall  deter- 


THE  CALLING 


315 


mine  whether  it  is  to  be  great  artist  or  great  artisan 
that  is  to  be  born  again. 

To  Franklin,  dreaming  as  he  woke  or  slept,  there 
sometimes  waved  a  hand,  there  sometimes  sounded 
a  Voice,  as  that  which  of  old  summoned  the  prophet 
in  the  watches  of  the  night.  Neither  in  his  waking 
nor  his  sleeping  hours  could  he  call  this  spirit  into 
materialization,  however  much  he  longed  to  wrestle 
with  it  finally.  It  remained  only  to  haunt  him 
vaguely,  to  join  with  the  shade  of  Mary  Ellen  the 
Cruel  to  set  misery  on  a  life  which  he  had  thought 
happily  assured. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII 

THE   GREAT   COLD 

THE  land  lay  trusting  and  defenceless  under  a 
cynical  sky,  which  was  unthreatening  but  mocking. 
Dotting  a  stretch  of  country  thirty  miles  on  either 
side  of  the  railway,  and  extending  as  far  to  the  east 
and  west  along  its  line,  there  were  scattered  hun- 
dreds of  homes,  though  often  these  were  separated 
one  from  the  other  by  many  miles  of  open  prairie. 
Fences  and  fields  appeared,  and  low  stacks  of  hay 
and  straw  here  and  there  stood  up  above  the  vast 
gray  surface  of  the  old  buffalo  and  cattle  range. 
Some  of  these  houses  were  board  "  shacks,"  while 
others  were  of  sods,  and  yet  others,  these  among  the 
earliest  established  on  the  plains,  the  useful  dugout, 
half  above  and  half  beneath  the  ground.  Yet  each 
building,  squat  or  tall,  small  or  less  small,  was  none 
the  less  a  home.  Most  of  them  contained  families. 
Men  had  brought  hither  their  wives  and  children — 
little  children,  sometimes  babes,  tender,  needful  of 
warmth  and  care.  For  these  stood  guardian  the 
gaunt  coal  chutes  of  the  town,  with  the  demands  of 
a  population  of  twenty-five  hundred,  to  say  nothing 
316 


THE  GREAT  COLD  317 

of  the  settlers  round  about,  a  hundred  tons  for  a 
thousand  families,  scattered,  dwelling  out  along 
breaks  and  coulees,  and  on  worn  hillsides,  and  at  the 
ends  of  long,  faint,  wandering  trails,  which  the  first 
whirl  of  snow  would  softly  and  cruelly  wipe  away. 

Yet  there  was  no  snow.  There  had  been  none 
the  winter  before.  The  trappers  and  skin-hunters 
said  that  the  winter  was  rarely  severe.  The  railroad 
men  had  ranged  west  all  the  winter,  throats  exposed 
and  coats  left  at  the  wagons.  It  was  a  mild  coun- 
try, a  gentle,  tender  country.  In  this  laughing 
sky  who  could  see  any  cynicism?  The  wind  was 
cold,  and  the  wild  fowl  flew  clamouring  south 
from  the  sheeted  pools,  but  the  great  hares  did 
not  change  their  colour,  and  the  grouse  stayed 
brown,  and  the  prairie  dogs  barked  joyously.  No 
harm  could  come  to  any  one.  The  women  and  chil- 
dren were  safe.  Besides,  was  there  not  coal  at  the 
town?  Quite  outside  of  this,  might  not  one  burn 
coarse  grass  if  necessary,  or  stalks  of  corn,  or  even 
ears  of  corn?  No  tree  showed  in  scores  of  miles, 
and  often  from  smoke  to  tiny  smoke  it  was  farther 
than  one  could  see,  even  in  the  clear  blue  mocking 
morn ;  yet  the  little  houses  were  low  and  warm,  and 
each  had  its  makeshift  for  fuel,  and  in  each  the  hus- 
band ate,  and  the  wife  sewed,  and  the  babes  wept 
and  prattled  as  they  have  in  generations  past;  and 
none  looked  on  the  sky  to  call  it  treacherous. 

One  morning  the  sun  rose  with  a  swift  bound 


318     THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

into  a  cloudless  field.  The  air  was  mild,  dead,  abso- 
lutely silent  and  motionless.  The  wires  along  the 
railway  alone  sang  loudly,  as  though  in  warning — a 
warning  unfounded  and  without  apparent  cause. 
Yet  the  sighing  in  the  short  grass  was  gone.  In  the 
still  air  the  smokes  of  the  town  rose  directly  up- 
right ;  and  answering  to  them  faint,  thin  spires  rose 
here  and  there  far  out  over  the  prairies,  all  straight, 
unswerving,  ominous,  terrible.  There  was  a  great 
hush,  a  calm,  a  pause  upon  all  things.  The  sky  was 
blue  and  cloudless,  but  at  last  it  could  not  conceal 
the  mockery  it  bore  upon  its  face,  so  that  when  men 
looked  at  it  and  listened  to  the  singing  of  the  wires 
they  stopped,  and  without  conscious  plan  hurried 
on,  silent,  to  the  nearest  company. 

Somewhere,  high  up  in  the  air,  unheralded,  in- 
visible, there  were  passing  some  thin  inarticulate 
sounds,  far  above  the  tops  of  the  tallest  smoke 
spires,  as  though  some  Titan  blew  a  far  jest  across 
the  continent  to  another  near  the  sea,  who  answered 
with  a  gusty  laugh,  sardonic,  grim,  foreknowing. 
Every  horse  free  on  the  range  came  into  the  coulees 
that  morning,  and  those  which  were  fenced  in  ran 
up  and  down  excitedly.  Men  ate  and  smoked,  and 
women  darned,  and  babes  played.  In  a  thousand 
homes  there  was  content  with  this  new  land,  so  wild 
at  one  time,  but  now  so  quickly  tamed,  so  calm,  so 
gentle,  so  thoroughly  subdued. 

The  sun  came  on,  valiantly  stripped  bare,  know- 


THE  GREAT  COLD 

ing  what  was  to  be.  Still  louder  rose  the  requiem 
of  the  wire.  The  sky  smiled  on.  There  was  no 
token  to  strike  with  alarm  these  human  beings,  their 
faculties  dulled  by  a  thousand  years  of  differentia- 
tion. "  Peace  and  goodwill,"  said  men ;  for  now  it 
was  coming  on  to  Christmastide.  But  the  wire  was 
seeking  to  betray  the  secret  of  the  sky,  which  was 
resolved  to  carry  war,  to  sweep  these  beings  from 
the  old  range  that  once  was  tenantless ! 

To  the  north  there  appeared  a  long,  black  cloud, 
hanging  low  as  the  trail  of  some  far-off  locomotive, 
new  upon  the  land.  Even  the  old  hunters  might 
have  called  it  but  the  loom  of  the  line  of  the  distant 
sand  hills  upon  the  stream.  But  all  at  once  the 
cloud  sprang  up,  unfurling  tattered  battle  flags,  and 
hurrying  to  meet  the  sun  upon  the  zenith  battle 
ground.  Then  the  old  hunters  and  trappers  saw 
what  was  betokened.  A  man  came  running,  laugh- 
ing, showing  his  breath  white  on  the  air.  The  agent 
at  the  depot  called  sharply  to  the  cub  to  shut  the 
door.  Then  he  arose  and  looked  out,  and  hurried 
to  his  sender  to  wire  east  along  the  road  for  coal, 
train  loads  of  coal,  all  the  coal  that  could  be  hurried 
on !  This  man  knew  the  freight  of  the  country,  in 
and  out,  and  he  had  once  trapped  for  a  living  along 
these  same  hills  and  plains.  He  knew  what  was  the 
meaning  of  the  cloud,  and  the  tall  pointed  spires  of 
smoke,  and  the  hurrying  naked  sun. 

The  cloud  swept  up  and  onward,  and  all  persons 


320     THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

closed  their  doors,  and  said  that  Christmas  would  be 
cold.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  they  saw  their  chro- 
nology late  by  a  day.  In  half  an  hour  they  noted  a 
gray  mist  drive  across  the  sky.  There  was  a  faint 
wavering  and  spreading  and  deflection  at  the  top  of 
the  tallest  spire  of  smoke.  Somewhere,  high  above, 
there  passed  a  swarm  of  vast  humming  bees. 

Out  in  the  country,  miles  away  from  town,  a 
baby  played  in  the  clear  air,  resting  its  plump  knees 
in  the  shallow  layer  of  chips  where  once  a  pile  of 
wood  had  been.  It  turned  its  face  up  toward  the 
sky,  and  something  soft  and  white  and  cool  dropped 
down  upon  its  cheek. 

In  mid-sky  met  the  sun  and  the  cloud,  and  the 
sun  was  vanquished,  and  all  the  world  went  gray. 
Then,  with  a  shriek  and  a  whirl  of  a  raw  and  icy  air 
which  dropped,  dropped  down,  colder  and  colder 
and  still  more  cold,  all  the  world  went  white.  This 
snow  came  not  down  from  the  sky,  but  slantwise 
across  the  land,  parallel  with  the  earth,  coming  from 
the  open  side  of  the  coldest  nether  hell  hidden  in  the 
mysterious  North.  Over  it  sang  the  'air  spirits. 
Above,  somewhere,  there  was  perhaps  a  sky  griev- 
ing at  its  perfidy.  Across  the  world  the  Titans 
laughed  and  howled.  All  the  elements  were  over- 
ridden by  a  voice  which  said,  "  I  shall  have  back 
my  own !  "  For  presently  the  old  Plains  were  back 
again,  and  over  them  rushed  the  wild  winds  in  their 
favourite  ancient  game. 


THE  GREAT  COLD  321 

Once  the  winds  pelted  the  slant  snow  through 
the  interstices  of  the  grasses  upon  the  furry  back 
of  the  cowering  coyote.  Now  they  found  a  new 
sport  in  driving  the  icy  powder  through  the  cracks 
of  the  loose  board  shanty,  upon  the  stripped  back 
of  the  mother  huddling  her  sobbing  children  against 
the  empty,  impotent  stove,  perhaps  wrapping  her 
young  in  the  worn  and  whitened  robe  of  the  buffalo 
taken  years  ago.  For  it  was  only  the  buffalo, 
though  now  departed,  which  held  the  frontier  for 
America  in  this  unprepared  season,  the  Christmas 
of  the  Great  Cold.  The  robes  saved  many  of  the 
children,  and  now  and  then  a  mother  also. 

The  men  who  had  no  fuel  did  as  their  natures 
bid,  some  dying  at  the  ice-bound  stove,  and  others 
in  the  open  on  their  way  for  fuel;  for  this  great 
storm,  known  sometimes  as  the  Double  Norther, 
had  this  deadly  aspect,  that  at  the  end  of  the  first  day 
it  cleared,  the  sky  offering  treacherous  flag  of  truce, 
afterward  to  slay  those  who  came  forth  and  were 
entrapped.  In  that  vast,  seething  sea  of  slantwise 
icy  nodules  not  the  oldest  plainsman  could  hold  no- 
tion of  the  compass.  Many  men  died  far  away  from 
home,  some  with  their  horses,  and  others  far  apart 
from  where  the  horses  stood,  the  latter  also  in  many 
cases  frozen  stiff.  Mishap  passed  by  but  few  of  the 
remoter  homes  found  unprepared  with  fuel,  and 
Christmas  day,  deceitfully  fair,  dawned  on  many 
homes  that  were  to  be  fatherless,  motherless,  or 

22 


322     THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

robbed  of  a  first-born.  Thus  it  was  that  from  this, 
the  hardiest  and  most  self-reliant  population  ever 
known  on  earth,  there  rose  the  heartbroken  cry  for 
comfort  and  for  help,  the  frontier  for  the  first  time 
begging  aid  to  hold  the  skirmish  line.  Indeed,  back 
from  this  skirmish  line  there  came  many  broken 
groups,  men  who  had  no  families,  or  families  that 
had  no  longer  any  men.  It  was  because  of  this  new 
game  the  winds  had  found  upon  the  plains,  and  be- 
cause of  the  deceitful  double  storm. 

Men  came  into  Ellisville  white  with  the  ice 
driven  into  their  buffalo  coats  and  hair  and  beards, 
their  mouths  mumbling,  their  feet  stumbling  and 
heavy.  They  begged  for  coal,  and  the  agent  gave 
to  each,  while  he  could,  what  one  might  carry  in  a 
cloth,  men  standing  over  the  supply  with  rifles  to 
see  that  fairness  was  enforced.  After  obtaining 
such  pitiful  store,  men  started  back  home  again, 
often  besought  or  ordered  not  to  leave  the  town,  but 
eager  to  die  so  much  the  closer  to  their  families. 

After  the  storm  had  broken,  little  relief  parties 
started  out,  provided  with  section  maps  and  lists  of 
names  from  the  Land  Office.  These  sometimes 
were  but  counting  parties.  The  wolves  had  new 
feed  that  winter,  and  for  years  remembered  it,  com- 
ing closer  about  the  settlements,  sometimes  follow- 
ing the  children  as  they  went  to  school.  The  babe 
that  touched  with  laughter  the  cool,  soft  thing  that 
fell  upon  its  cheek  lay  finally  white  and  silent  be- 


THE   GREAT  COLD  323 

neath  a  coverlid  of  white,  and  upon  the  floor  lay 
others  also  shrouded;  and  up  to  the  flapping  door 
led  tracks  which  the  rescuing  parties  saw. 

Sam  Poston,  the  driver  of  the  regular  mail  stage 
to  the  south,  knew  more  of  the  condition  of  the 
settlers  in  that  part  of  the  country  than  any  other 
man  in  Ellisville,  and  he  gave  an  estimate  which 
was  alarming.  There  was  no  regular  supply  of  fuel, 
he  stated,  and  it  was  certain  that  the  storm  had 
found  scores  of  families  utterly  unprepared.  Of  what 
that  signifies,  those  who  have  lived  only  in  the  rou- 
tine of  old  communities  can  have  no  idea  whatever. 
For  the  most  of  us,  when  we  experience  cold,  the 
remedy  is  to  turn  a  valve,  to  press  a  knob,  to  ask 
forthwith  for  fuel.  But  if  fuel  be  twenty  miles 
away,  in  a  sea  of  shifting  ice  and  bitter  cold,  if  it  be 
somewhere  where  no  man  may  reach  it  alive — what 
then?  First,  we  burn  the  fence,  if  we  can  find  it. 
Then  we  burn  all  loose  things.  We  burn  the  chairs, 
the  table,  the  bed,  the  doors —  Then  we  rebel ;  and 
then  we  dream. 

Sam  Poston  came  into  the  office  where  Frank- 
lin sat  on  Christmas  eve,  listening  to  the  clinking 
rattle  of  the  hard  snow  on  the  pane.  Sam  was 
white  from  head  to  foot.  His  face  was  anxious,  his 
habitual  uncertainty  and  diffidence  were  gone. 

"  Cap,"  said  he,  with  no  prelude,  "  the  whole 
country  below'll  be  froze  out.  This  blizzard's 
awful." 


324     THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

"I  know  it,"  said  Franklin.  "We  must  get 
out  with  help  soon  as  we  can.  How  far  down  do 
you  think  the  danger  line  begins  ?  " 

"  Well,  up  to  three  or  four  miles  out  it's  thicker 
settled,  an'  most  o'  the  folks  could  git  into  town. 
As  fur  out  as  thirty  mile  to  the  south,  they  might  git 
a  little  timber  yet,  over  on  the  Smoky.  The  worst 
strip  is  fifteen  to  twenty-five  mile  below.  Folks  in 
there  is  sort  o'  betwixt  an'  between,  an'  if  they're 
short  o'  fuel  to-day  they'll  have  to  burn  anything 
they  can,  that's  all,  fer  a  feller  wouldn't  last  out  in 
this  storm  very  long  if  he  got  lost.  It's  the  worst  I 
ever  see  in  the  West." 

Franklin  felt  a  tightening  at  his  heart.  "  About 
fifteen  to  twenty-five  miles  ?  "  he  said.  Sam  nodded. 
Both  were  silent. 

"  Look  here,  Cap,"  said  the  driver  presently, 
"  you've  allus  told  me  not  to  say  nothin'  'bout  the 
folks  down  to  the  Halfway  House,  an'  I  hain't  said 
a  thing.  I  'low  you  got  jarred  down  there  some. 
I  know  how  that  is.  All  the  same,  I  reckon  maybe 
you  sorter  have  a  leanin'  that  way  still.  You  may 
be  worried  some " 

"  I  am !  "  cried  Franklin.  "  Tell  me,  how  were 
they  prepared — would  they  have  enough  to  last 
them  through  ?  " 

"  None  too  much,"  said  Sam.  "  The  old  man 
was  tellin'  me  not  long  back  that  he'd  have  to  come 
in  'fore  long  to  lay  him  in  his  coal  for  the  winter. 


THE  GREAT  COLD  325 

O'  course,  they  had  the  corrals,  an'  some  boards,  an' 
stuff  like  that  layin'  'round.  They  had  the  steps  to 
the  dugout,  an'  some  little  wood  about  the  win'mill, 
though  they  couldn't  hardly  git  at  the  tank " 

Franklin  groaned  as  he  listened  to  this  calm  in- 
ventory of  resources  in  a  case  so  desperate.  He 
sank  into  a  chair,  his  face  between  his  hands.  Then 
he  sprang  up.  "  We  must  go !  "  he  cried. 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Sam  simply. 

"  Get  ready,"  exclaimed  Franklin,  reaching  for 
his  coat. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Cap — now  ?  " 

"  Yes,  to-night— at  once." 

"  You  d- d  fool !  "  said  Sam. 

"You  coward!"  cried  Franklin.  "What! 
Are  you  afraid  to  go  out  when  people  are  freezing 
—when " 

Sam  rose  to  his  feet,  his  slow  features  working. 
"  That  ain't  right,  Cap,"  said  he.  "  I  know  I'm 
scared  to  do  some  things,  but  I — I  don't  believe  I'm 
no  coward.  I  ain't  afraid  to  go  down  there,  but  I 
won't  go  to-night,  ner  let  you  go,  fer  it's  the  same 
as  death  to  start  now.  We  couldn't  maybe  make  it 
in  the  daytime,  but  I'm  willin'  to  try  it  then.  Don't 
you  call  no  coward  to  me.  It  ain't  right." 

Franklin  again  cast  himself  into  his  chair,  his 
hand  and  arm  smiting  on  the  table.  "  I  beg  your 
pardon,  Sam,"  said  he  presently.  "  I  know  you're 
not  a  coward.  We'll  start  together  in  the  morning. 


326     THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

But  it's  killing  me  to  wait.  Good  God !  they  may 
be  freezing  now,  while  we're  here,  warm  and  safe !  " 

"  That's  so,"  said  Sam  sententiously.  "  We  can't 
help  it.  We  all  got  to  go  some  day."  His  words 
drove  Franklin  again  to  his  feet,  and  he  walked  up 
and  down,  his  face  gone  pinched  and  old. 

"  I  'low  we  won't  sleep  much  to-night,  Cap," 
said  Sam  quietly.  "  Come  on ;  let's  go  git  some 
coffee,  an'  see  if  anybody  here  in  town  is  needin' 
help.  We'll  pull  out  soon  as  we  kin  see  in  the 
mornin'." 

They  went  out  into  the  cold,  staggering  as  the 
icy  sheet  drove  full  against  them.  Ellisville  was 
blotted  out.  There  was  no  street,  but  only  a  howl- 
ing lane  of  white.  Not  half  a  dozen  lights  were  vis- 
ible. The  tank  at  the  railway,  the  big  hotel,  the 
station-house,  were  gone — wiped  quite  away.  The 
Plains  were  back  again ! 

"  Don't  git  off  the  main  street,"  gasped  Sam  as 
they  turned  their  faces  down  wind  to  catch  their 
breath.  "  Touch  the  houses  all  along.  Lord !  ain't 
it  cold!" 

Ellisville  was  safe,  or  all  of  it  that  they  could 
stumblingly  discover.  The  town  did  not  sleep. 
People  sat  up,  greeting  joyously  any  who  came  to 
them,  eating,  drinking,  shivering  in  a  cold  whose 
edge  could  not  be  turned.  It  was  an  age  till  morn- 
ing— until  that  morning  of  deceit. 

At  dawn  the  wind  lulled.    The  clouds  swept  by 


THE  GREAT   COLD  327 

and  the  sun  shone  for  an  hour  over  a  vast  landscape 
buried  under  white.  Sam  was  ready  to  start,  hav- 
ing worked  half  the  night  making  runners  for  a 
sled  at  which  his  wild  team  snorted  in  the  terror  of 
unacquaintedness.  The  sled  box  was  piled  full  of 
robes  and  coal  and  food  and  liquor — all  things 
that  seemed  needful  and  which  could  hurriedly  be 
secured.  The  breath  of  the  horses  was  white  steam, 
and  ice  hung  on  the  faces  of  the  men  before  they 
had  cleared  the  town  and  swung  out  into  the  reaches 
of  the  open  prairies  which  lay  cold  and  empty  all 
about  them.  They  counted  the  smokes — Peterson, 
Johnson,  Clark,  McGill,  Townsend,  one  after  an- 
other; and  where  they  saw  smoke  they  rejoiced, 
and  where  they  saw  none  they  stopped.  Often  it 
was  but  to  nail  fast  the  door. 

With  perfect  horsemanship  Sam  drove  his  team 
rapidly  on  to  the  south,  five  miles,  ten  miles,  fifteen, 
the  horses  now  warming  up,  but  still  restless  and 
nervous,  even  on  the  way  so  familiar  to  them  from 
their  frequent  journeyings.  The  steam  of  their 
breath  enveloped  the  travellers  in  a  wide,  white 
cloud.  The  rude  runners  crushed  into  and  over  the 
packed  drifts,  or  along  the  sandy  grime  where  the 
wind  had  swept  the  earth  bare  of  snow.  In  less 
than  an  hour  they  would  see  the  Halfway  House. 
They  would  know  whether  or  not  there  was  smoke. 

But  in  less  than  two  hours  on  that  morning  of 
deceit  the  sun  was  lost  again.  The  winds  piped  up, 


328     THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY  HOUSE 

the  cold  continued,  and  again  there  came  the  blind- 
ing snow,  wrapping  all  things  in  its  dancing,  dizzy 
mist 

In  spite  of  the  falling  of  the  storm,  Franklin  and 
his  companion  pushed  on,  trusting  to  the  instinct  of 
the  plains  horses,  which  should  lead  them  over  a 
trail  that  they  had  travelled  so  often  before.  Soon 
the  robes  and  coats  were  driven  full  of  snow;  the 
horses  were  anxious,  restless,  and  excited.  But  al- 
ways the  runners  creaked  on,  and  always  the  two 
felt  sure  they  were  nearing  the  place  they  sought. 
Exposed  so  long  in  this  bitter  air,  they  were  cut 
through  with  the  chill,  in  spite  of  all  the  clothing 
they  could  wear,  for  the  norther  of  the  plains  has 
quality  of  its  own  to  make  its  victims  helpless.  The 
presence  of  the  storm  was  awful,  colossal,  terrifying. 
Sometimes  they  were  confused,  seeing  dark,  loom- 
ing bulks  in  the  vague  air,  though  a  moment  later 
they  noted  it  to  be  but  the  packing  of  the  drift  in  the 
atmosphere.  Sometimes  they  were  gloomy,  not 
hoping  for  escape,  though  still  the  horses  went  gal- 
lantly on,  driven  for  the  most  part  down  a  wind 
which  they  never  would  have  faced. 

"  The  wind's  just  on  my  right  cheek,"  said  Sam, 
putting  up  a  mitten.  "  But  where's  it  gone  ?  " 

"  You're  frozen,  man !  "  cried  Franklin.  "  Pull 
up,  and  let  me  rub  your  face." 

"  No,  no,  we  can't  stop,"  said  Sam,  catching  up 
some  snow  and  rubbing  his  white  cheek  as  he  drove. 


THE  GREAT  COLD  329 

"  Keep  the  wind  on  your  right  cheek— we're  over 
the  Sand  Run  now,  I  think,  and  on  the  long  ridge, 
back  of  the  White  Woman.  It  can't  be  over  two 
mile  more. — Git  along,  boys.  Whoa!  What's  the 
matter  there?" 

The  horses  had  stopped,  plunging  at  something 
which  they  could  not  pass.  "  Good  God ! "  cried 
Franklin,  "  whose  fence  is  that  ?  Are  we  at  Bu- 
ford's?" 

"  No,"  said  Sam,  "  this  must  be  at  old  man  Han- 
cock's. He  fenced  across  the  old  road,  and  we  had 

to  make  a  jog  around  his  d d  broom-corn  field. 

It's  only  a  couple  o'  miles  now  to  Buford's." 

"  Shall  I  tear  down  the  fence  ?  "  asked  Franklin. 

"  No,  it's  no  use ;  it'd  only  let  us  in  his  field,  an' 
maybe  we  couldn't  hit  the  trail  on  the  fur  side.  We 
got  to  follow  the  fence  a  way.  May  God  everlast- 
ingly damn  any  man  that'll  fence  up  the  free  range ! 
—Whoa,  Jack!  Whoa,  Bill!  Git  out  o' here !  Git 
up!" 

They  tried  to  parallel  the  fence,  but  the  horses 
edged  away  from  the  wind  continually,  so  that  it 
was  difficult  to  keep  eye  upon  the  infrequent  posts 
of  the  meagre,  straggling  fence  that  this  man  had 
put  upon  the  "  public  lands." 

"Hold  on,  Sam!"  cried  Franklin.  "Let  me 
out." 

.     "  That's  right,  Cap,"  said  Sam.     "  Git  out  an' 
go  on  ahead  a  way,  then  holler  to  me,  so'st  I  kin 


330 


THE  GIRL  AT   THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 


come  up  to  you.  When  we  git  around  the  corner 
we'll  be  all  right." 

But  when  they  got  around  the  corner  they  were 
not  all  right.  At  such  times  the  mind  of  man  is 
thrown  off  its  balance,  so  that  it  does  strange  and 
irregular  things.  Both  these  men  had  agreed  a 
moment  ago  that  the  wind  should  be  on  the  right ; 
now  they  disagreed,  one  thinking  that  Hancock's 
house  was  to  the  left,  the  other  to  the  right,  their 
ideas  as  to  the  direction  of  the  Buford  ranch  being 
equally  at  variance.  The  horses  decided  it,  break- 
ing once  again  down  wind,  and  striking  a  low- 
headed,  sullen  trot,  as  though  they  would  out- 
march the  storm.  And  so  the  two  argued,  and  so 
they  rode,  until  at  last  there  was  a  lurch  and  a  crash, 
and  they  found  themselves  in  rough  going,  the  sled 
half  overturned,  with  no  fence,  no  house,  no  land- 
mark of  any  sort  visible,  and  the  snow  drifting 
thicker  than  before.  They  sprang  out  and  righted 
the  sled,  but  the  horses  doggedly  pulled  on,  plung- 
ing down  and  down ;  and  they  followed,  clinging  to 
reins  and  sled  as  best  they  might. 

Either  accident  or  the  instinct  of  the  animals 
had  in  some  way  taken  them  into  rough,  broken 
country,  where  they  would  find  some  shelter  from 
the  bitter  level  blast.  They  were  soon  at  the  bot- 
tom of  a  flat  and  narrow  valley,  and  above  them  the 
wind  roared  and  drove  ever  on  a  white  blanket  that 
sought  to  cover  them  in  and  under. 


THE  GREAT  COLD 


331 


"  We've  lost  the  trail,  but  we  done  the  best  we 
could,"  said  Sam  doggedly,  going  to  the  heads  of 
the  horses,  which  looked  questioningly  back  at  him, 
their  heads  drooping,  their  breath  freezing  upon 
their  coats  in  spiculse  of  white. 

"Wait!"  cried  Franklin.  "I  know  this  hole! 
I've  been  here  before.  The  team's  come  here  for 
shelter " 

"Oh,  it's  the  White  Woman  breaks— why, 
sure !  "  cried  Sam  in  return. 

"  Yes,  that's  where  it  is.  We're  less  than  half 
a  mile  from  the  house.  Wait,  now,  and  let  me 
think.  I've  got  to  figure  this  out  a  while." 

"  It's  off  there,"  said  Sam,  pointing  across  the 
coulee;  "  but  we  can't  get  there." 

"  Yes,  we  can,  old  man ;  yes,  we  can ! "  insisted 
Franklin.  "I'll  tell  you.  Let  me  think.  Good 
God!  why  can't  I  think?  Yes — see  here,  you  go 
down  the  bottom  of  this  gully  to  the  mouth  of  the 
coulee,  and  then  we  turn  to  the  left — no,  it's  to  the 
right — and  you  bear  up  along  the  side  of  the  draw 
till  you  get  to  the  ridge,  and  then  the  house  is  right 
in  front  of  you.  Listen,  now !  The  wind's  north- 
west, and  the  house  is  west  of  the  head  of  the  cou- 
lee; so  the  mouth  is  east  of  us,  and  that  brings  the 
wind  on  the  left  cheek  at  the  mouth  of  the  couleet 
and  it  comes  more  and  more  on  the  right  cheek  as 
we  turn  up  the  ridge;  and  it's  on  the  front  half  of 
the  right  cheek  when  we  face  the  house.  I'm  sure 


332     THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY  HOUSE 

that's  right — wait,  I'll  mark  it  out  here  in  the  snow. 
God !  how  cold  it  is !  It  must  be  right.  Come  on ; 
come !  We  must  try  it,  anyway." 

"  We  may  hit  the  house,  Cap/'  said  Sam  calm- 
ly, "  but  if  we  miss  it  we'll  go  God  knows  where ! 
Anyhow,  I'm  with  you,  an'  if  we  don't  turn  up,  we 
can't  help  it,  an'  we  done  our  best." 

"  Come,"  cried  Franklin  once  more.  "  Let's 
get  to  the  mouth  of  the  coulee.  I  know  this  place 
perfectly." 

And  so,  advancing  and  calling,  and  waiting 
while  Sam  fought  the  stubborn  horses  with  lash  and 
rein  out  of  the  shelter  which  they  coveted,  Franklin 
led  out  of  the  flat  coulee,  into  the  wider  draw,  and 
edged  up  and  up  to  the  right,  agonizedly  repeating 
to  himself,  over  and  over  again,  the  instructions  he 
had  laid  down,  and  which  the  dizzy  whirl  of  the 
snow  mingled  ever  confusedly  in  his  mind.  At  last 
they  had  the  full  gale  again  in  their  faces  as  they 
reached  the  level  of  the  prairies,  and  cast  loose  for 
what  they  thought  was  west,  fearfully,  tremblingly, 
the  voyage  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  the  danger  infinitely 
great ;  for  beyond  lay  only  the  cruel  plains  and  the 
bitter  storm — this  double  norther  of  a  woeful 
Christmastide. 

Once  again  Providence  aided  them,  by  agency 
of  brute  instinct.  One  of  the  horses  threw  up  its 
head  and  neighed,  and  then  both  pressed  forward 
eagerly.  The  low  moan  of  penned  cattle  came 


THE  GREAT  COLD  333 

down  the  wind.  They  crashed  into  a  fence  of  lath. 
They  passed  its  end — a  broken,  rattling  end,  that 
trailed  and  swept  back  and  forth  in  the  wind. 

"  It's  the  chicken  corral,"  cried  Sam,  "  an*  it's 
down!  They've  been  burnin' " 

"  Go  on !  go  on — hurry ! "  shouted  Franklin, 
bending  down  his  head  so  that  the  gale  might  not 
quite  rob  him  of  his  breath,  and  Sam  urged  on 
the  now  willing  horses. 

They  came  to  the  sod  barn,  and  here  they  left 
the  team  that  had  saved  them,  not  pausing  to  take 
them  from  the  harness.  They  crept  to  the  low  and 
white-banked  wall  in  which  showed  two  windows, 
glazed  with  frost.  They  could  not  see  the  chimney 
plainly,  but  it  carried  no  smell  of  smoke.  The 
stairway  leading  down  to  the  door  of  the  dugout 
was  missing,  the  excavation  which  held  it  was 
drifted  full  of  snow,  and  the  snow  bore  no  track  of 
human  foot.  All  was  white  and  silent.  It  might 
have  been  a  vault  far  in  the  frozen  northern  sea. 

Franklin  burst  open  the  door,  and  they  both 
went  in,  half  pausing.  There  was  that  which  might 
well  give  them  pause.  The  icy  breath  of  the  outer 
air  was  also  here.  Heaps  and  tongues  of  snow 
lay  across  the  floor.  White  ashes  lay  at  the  doors 
of  both  the  stoves.  The  table  was  gone,  the  chairs 
were  gone.  The  interior  was  nearly  denuded,  so 
that  the  abode  lay  like  an  abandoned  house,  drifted 
half  full  of  dry,  fine  powdered  snow.  And  even 


334     THE  GIRL  AT  THE   HALFWAY  HOUSE 

this  snow  upon  the  floors  had  no  tracks  upon  its 
surface.  There  was  no  sign  of  life. 

Awed,  appalled,  the  two  men  stood,  white  and 
huge,  in  the  middle  of  the  abandoned  room,  listen- 
ing for  that  which  they  scarce  expected  to  hear. 
Yet  from  one  of  the  side  rooms  they  caught  a  moan, 
a  call,  a  supplication.  Then  from  a  door  came  a 
tall  and  white-faced  figure  with  staring  eyes,  which 
held  out  its  arms  to  the  taller  of  the  snow-shrouded 
forms  and  said :  "  Uncle,  is  it  you  ?  Have  you 
come  back  ?  We  were  so  afraid !  "  From  the  room 
behind  this  figure  came  a  voice  sobbing,  shouting, 
blessing  the  name  of  the  Lord.  So  they  knew  that 
two  were  saved,  and  one  was  missing. 

They  pushed  into  the  remaining  room.  "Auntie 
went  away,"  said  the  tall  and  white-faced  figure, 
shuddering  and  shivering.  "  She  went  away  into 
her  room.  We  could  not  find  the  fence  any  more. 
Uncle,  is  it  you  ?  Come !  "  So  they  came  to  the 
bedside  and  saw  Mrs.  Buford  lying  covered  with 
all  her  own  clothing  and  much  of  that  of  Mary  Ellen 
and  Aunt  Lucy,  but  with  no  robe;  for  the  buffalo 
robes  had  all  gone  with  the  wagon,  as  was  right, 
though  unavailing.  Under  this  covering,  heaped 
up,  though  insufficient,  lay  Mrs.  Buford,  her  face 
white  and  still  and  marble-cold.  They  found  her 
with  the  picture  of  her  husband  clasped  upon  her 
breast. 

"  She  went  away !  "  sobbed  Mary  Ellen,  leaning 


THE  GREAT  COLD  335 

her  head  upon  Franklin's  shoulder  and  still  under 
the  hallucination  of  the  fright  and  strain  and  suffer- 
ing. She  seemed  scarce  to  understand  that  which 
lay  before  them,  but  continued  to  wander,  bab- 
bling, shivering,  as  her  arms  lay  on  Franklin's 
shoulder.  "  We  could  not  keep  her  warm,"  she 
said.  "  It  has  been  very,  very  cold !  " 


CHAPTER   XXXIV 

THE  ARTFULNESS   OF   SAM 

IN  the  early  days  of  Ellisville  society  was  alike 
in  costume  and  custom,  and  as  unsuspicious  as  it 
would  have  been  intolerant  of  any  idea  of  rank  or 
class.  A  "  beef "  was  a  beef,  and  worth  eight  dol- 
lars. A  man  was  a  man,  worth  as  much  as  his 
neighbour,  and  no  more.  Each  man  mended  his 
own  saddle.  Thus  society  remained  until  there  en- 
sued that  natural  division  which  has  been  earlier 
mentioned,  by  which  there  became  established  two 
groups  or  classes — the  dwellers  in  the  Cottage  and 
the  dwellers  in  the  Stone  Hotel.  This  was  at  first 
a  matter  of  choice,  and  carried  no  idea  of  rank  or 
class  distinction. 

For  a  brief  time  there  might  have  been  found 
support  for  that  ideally  inaccurate  statement  of  our 
Constitution  which  holds  that  all  men  are  born 
free  and  equal,  entitled  to  life,  liberty,  and  the  pur- 
suit of  happiness.  With  all  our  might  we  belie  this 
clause,  though  in  the  time  of  Ellisville  it  might  have 
had  some  footing.  That  day  has  long  since  passed. 

The  men  of  the  Cottage  Hotel  continued  big, 
336 


THE  ARTFULNESS  OF  SAM 


337 


brown,  bespurred  and  behatted,  yet  it  might  have 
been  observed  that  the  tenantry  of  the  Stone  Hotel 
became  gradually  less  sunburned  and  more  im- 
maculate. Mustaches  swept  not  so  sunburned, 
blonde  and  wide,  but  became  in  the  average  darker 
and  more  trim.  At  the  door  of  the  dining-room 
there  were  hat  racks,  and  in  time  they  held  "  hard 
hats."  The  stamping  of  the  social  die  had  begun 
its  work.  Indeed,  after  a  time  there  came  to  be 
in  the  great  dining-room  of  the  Stone  Hotel  little 
groups  bounded  by  unseen  but  impassable  lines. 
The  bankers  and  the  loan  agents  sat  at  the  head  of 
the  hall,  and  to  them  drifted  naturally  the  ministers, 
ever  in  search  of  pillars.  Lawyers  and  doctors  sat 
adjacent  thereunto,  and  merchants  not  far  away. 
There  was  yet  no  shrug  at  the  artisan,  yet  the  invis- 
ible hand  gradually  swept  him  apart.  Across  the 
great  gulfs,  on  whose  shores  sat  the  dining-room 
tables,  men  and  women  looked  and  talked,  but  trod 
not  as  they  came  in  to  meat,  each  person  knowing 
well  his  place.  The  day  of  the  commercial  traveller 
was  not  yet,  and  for  these  there  was  no  special  table, 
they  being  for  the  most  part  assigned  to  the  Red 
Belt ;  there  being  a  certain  portion  of  the  hall  where 
the  tablecloths  were  checkered  red  and  white.  It 
was  not  good  to  be  in  the  Red  Belt. 

Sam,  the  owner  of  the  livery  barn,  had  one  table 
in  the  corner,  where  he  invariably  sat.  His  mode 
of  entering  the  dining-room  varied  not  with  the 


338     THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

passing  of  the  years.  Appearing  at  the  door,  he 
cast  a  frightened  look  at  the  occupants  who  had 
preceded  him,  and  in  whose  faces  he  could  imagine 
nothing  but  critical  censure  of  his  own  person. 
Becoming  aware  of  his  hat,  he  made  a  dive  and 
hung  it  up.  Then  he  trod  timidly  through  the 
door,  with  a  certain  side-draught  in  his  step,  yet 
withal  an  acceleration  of  speed  which  presently 
brought  him  almost  at  a  run  to  his  corner  of  refuge, 
where  he  dropped,  red  and  with  a  gulp.  Often  he 
mopped  his  brow  with  the  unwonted  napkin,  but 
discovery  in  this  act  by  the  stern  eye  of  Nora,  the 
head  waitress,  caused  him  much  agony  and  a  sud- 
den search  for  a  handkerchief.  When  Nora  stood 
at  his  chair,  and  repeated  to  him  frostily  the  menu 
of  the  day,  all  the  world  went  round  to  Sam,  and  he 
gained  no  idea  of  what  was  offered  him.  With 
much  effort  at  nonchalance,  he  would  again  wipe 
his  face,  take  up  his  fork  for  twiddling,  and  say  al- 
ways the  same  thing. 

"  Oh,  I  ain't  very  hungry ;  jes'  bring  me  a  little 
pie  an'  beef  an'  coffee."  And  Nora,  scornfully  ig- 
noring all  this,  then  departed  and  brought  him 
many  things,  setting  them  in  array  about  his  plate, 
and  enabling  him  to  eat  as  really  he  wished. 
Whether  Sam  knew  that  Nora  would  do  this  is  a 
question  which  must  remain  unanswered,  but  it  is 
certain  that  he  never  changed  the  form  of  his  own 
"  order." 


THE  ARTFULNESS  OF  SAM  339 

Sam  was  a  citizen.  He  had  grown  up  with  the 
town.  He  was,  so  to  speak,  one  of  the  charter 
members  of  Ellisville,  and  thereby  entitled  to  con- 
sideration. Moreover,  his  business  was  one  of  the 
most  lucrative  in  the  community,  and  he  was  be- 
yond the  clutching  shallows  and  upon  the  easy  flood 
of  prosperity.  No  man  could  say  that  Sam  owed 
him  a  dollar,  nor  could  any  man  charge  against  him 
any  act  of  perfidy,  except  such  as  might  now  and 
then  be  connected  with  the  letting  of  a  "  right  gen- 
tle "  horse.  There  was  no  reason  why  Sam  might 
not  look  any  man  in  the  face,  or  any  woman.  But 
this  latter  Sam  had  never  done.  His  admiration 
for  Nora  bade  fair  to  remain  a  secret  known  of  all 
but  the  one  most  interested.  Daily  Sam  sat  at  the 
table  and  listened  to  Nora's  icy  tones.  He  caught 
his  breath  if  the  glitter  of  her  glasses  faced  him, 
and  went  in  a  fever  as  he  saw  her  sail  across  the 
floor.  Daily  he  arose  with  the  stern  resolve  that 
before  the  sun  had  set  he  would  have  told  this  wom- 
an of  that  which  so  oppressed  him;  yet  each  day, 
after  he  had  dined,  he  stole  furtively  away  to  the 
hat  rack  and  slouched  across  the  street  to  his  barn, 
gazing  down  at  his  feet  with  abasement  on  his  soul. 
"  I  ain't  afeard  o'  any  hoss  that  ever  stood  up," 
said  he  to  himself,  "  but  I  can't  say  a  word  to  that 
Nory  girl,  no  matter  how  I  try !  " 

It  was  one  of  Sam's  theories  that  some  day  he 
would  go  in  late  to  dinner,  when  there  was  no  one 


340 


THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY  HOUSE 


else  left  in  the  great  hall.  He  would  ask  Nora  to 
come  to  serve  him.  Then  he  would  grasp  her 
hand,  there  as  she  stood  by  him,  and  he  would  pour 
forth  to  her  the  story  of  his  long  unuttered  love. 
And  then — but  beyond  this  Sam  could  not  think. 
And  never  yet  had  he  dared  go  into  the  dining  hall 
and  sit  alone,  though  it  was  openly  rumoured  that 
such  had  been  the  ruse  of  Curly  with  the  "  littlest 
waiter  girl,"  before  Curly  had  gone  north  on  the 
Wyoming  trail. 

Accident  sometimes  accomplishes  that  which 
design  fails  to  compass.  One  day  Sam  was  de- 
tained with  a  customer  much  later  than  his  usual 
dinner  hour.  Indeed,  Sam  had  not  been  to  dinner 
at  the  hotel  for  many  days,  a  fact  which  the  district 
physician  at  the  railway  might  have  explained. 
"  Of  course,"  said  Sam,  "  I  done  the  drivin',  an' 
maybe  that  was  why  I  got  froze  some  more  than 
Cap  Franklin  did,  when  we  went  down  south  that 
day."  Frozen  he  had  been,  so  that  two  of  his  fin- 
gers were  now  gone  at  the  second  joint,  a  part  of  his 
right  ear  was  trimmed  of  unnecessary  tissue,  and  his 
right  cheek  remained  red  and  seared  with  the  blister 
of  the  cold  endured  on  that  drive  over  the  desolated 
land.  It  was  a  crippled  and  still  more  timid  Sam 
who,  unwittingly  very  late,  halted  that  day  at  the 
door  of  the  dining-room  and  gazed  within.  At  the 
door  there  came  over  him  a  wave  of  recollection. 
It  seemed  to  him  all  at  once  that  he  was,  by  reason 


THE  ARTFULNESS  OF  SAM  341 

of  his  afflictions,  set  still  further  without  the  pale  of 
any  possible  regard.  He  dodged  to  his  table  and 
sat  down  without  a  look  at  any  of  his  neighbours. 
To  him  it  seemed  that  Nora  regarded  him  with  yet 
more  visible  scornfulness.  Could  he  have  sunk  be- 
neath the  board  he  would  have  done  so.  Naught 
but  hunger  made  him  bold,  for  he  had  lived  long  at 
his  barn  on  sardines,  cheese,  and  crackers. 

One  by  one  the  guests  at  the  tables  rose  and 
left  the  room,  and  one  by  one  the  waiter  girls  fol- 
lowed them.  The  dining  hour  was  nearly  over. 
The  girls  would  go  upstairs  for  a  brief  season  of 
rest  before  changing  their  checked  gingham  mid- 
day uniform  for  the  black  gown  and  white  apron 
which  constituted  the  regalia  for  the  evening  meal, 
known,  of  course,  as  "  supper."  Sam,  absorbed  in 
his  own  misery  and  his  own  hunger,  awoke  with  a 
start  to  find  the  great  hall  apparently  quite  deserted. 

It  is  the  curious  faculty  of  some  men  (whereby 
scientists  refer  us  to  the  ape)  that  they  are  able  at 
will  to  work  back  and  forth  the  scalp  upon  the  skull. 
Yet  other  and  perhaps  fewer  men  retain  the  ability 
to  work  either  or  both  ears,  moving  them  back  and 
forth  voluntarily.  It  was  Sam's  solitary  accom- 
plishment that  he  could  thus  move  his  ears.  Only 
by  this  was  he  set  apart  and  superior  to  other  be- 
ings. You  shall  find  of  very  many  men  but  few 
able  to  do  this  thing.  Moreover,  if  you  be  curious 
in  philosophy,  it  shall  come  to  be  fixed  in  your 


342     THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

memory  that  woman  is  disposed  to  love  not  one 
who  is  like  to  many,  but  to  choose  rather  one  who  is 
distinct,  superior,  or  more  fit  than  his  fellow-men ; 
it  being  ever  the  intent  of  Nature  that  the  most  ex- 
cellent shall  attract,  and  thus  survive. 

As  Sam  sat  alone  at  the  table,  his  spoon  rattling 
loud  upon  his  plate  in  evidence  of  his  mental  dis- 
turbance, he  absent-mindedly  began  tc  work  back 
and  forth  his  ears,  perhaps  solicitous  to  learn  if  his 
accomplishment  had  been  impaired  by  the  mishap 
which  had  caused  him  other  loss.  As  he  did  this, 
he  was  intensely  startled  to  hear  behind  him  a  burst 
of  laughter,  albeit  laughter  quickly  smothered.  He 
turned  to  see  Nora,  his  idol,  his  adored,  standing 
back  of  him,  where  she  had  slipped  in  with  profes- 
sional quiet  and  stood  with  professional  etiquette, 
waiting  for  his  departure,  so  that  she  might  hale 
forth  the  dishes  he  had  used.  At  this  apparition, 
at  this  awful  thought — for  never  in  the  history  of 
man  had  Nora,  the  head  waitress,  been  known  to 
smile — the  heart  of  Sam  stopped  forthwith  in  his 
bosom. 

"  I-I-I-I  b-b-beg  your — I-I  d-didn't  know  you 
was  there,"  he  stammered  in  abject  perturbation. 

Nora  sniffed.  "  I  should  think  you  might  of 
knowed  it,"  said  she. 

"  I  d-d-don't  b-b-blame  you  fer  laughin',  M-M- 
Miss  M-M-M-Markley,"  said  Sam  miserably. 

"  What  at  t "  demanded  Nora  fiercely. 


THE  ARTFULNESS  OF  SAM  343 

"  At  m-m-my  air.  I  know  it's  funny,  cut  off, 
that  way.  But  I  c-c-can't  help  it.  It's  gone." 

"  I  didn't/'  exclaimed  Nora  hotly,  her  face 
flushing.  "  Your  ears  is  all  right.  I  was  laughin' 
at  seein'  you  move  'em.  I  beg  your  pardon.  I 
didn't  know  anybody  could,  that  way,  you  know. 
I'm — I'm  sorry." 

A  great  light  broke  over  Sam.  A  vast  dam 
crashed  free.  His  soul  rushed  forth  in  one  mad 
wave. 

"M-M-Miss  M-M-Markley— Miss— Nory!"  he 
exclaimed,  whirling  about  and  facing  her,  "  d-d- 
d-do  y-y-you  1-1-like  to  s-s-see  me  work  my  airs  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it's  funny,"  admitted  Nora,  on  the  point 
of  another  outbreak  in  spite  of  herself. 

This  amiability  was  an  undreamed  thing,  yet 
Sam  saw  his  advantage.  He  squared  himself  about, 
and,  looking  solemnly  and  earnestly  in  Nora's  face, 
he  pulled  first  his  right  and  then  his  left  ear  forward 
until  the  members  stood  nearly  at  right  angles  to 
his  head. 

After  all,  the  ludicrous  is  but  the  unexpected. 
Many  laugh  who  see  an  old  woman  fall  upon  the 
slippery  pavement.  This  new  spectacle  was  the  ab- 
solutely undreamed-of  to  Nora,  who  was  no  scientist. 
Her  laughter  was  irrepressible.  In  a  trice  the  prece- 
dents of  years  were  gone.  Nora  felt  the  empire 
of  her  dignity  slipping  away,  but  none  the  less  could 
not  repress  her  mirth.  And  more  than  this ;  as  she 


344     THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

gazed  into  the  honest,  blue-eyed  face  before  her  she 
felt  a  lessening  of  her  desire  to  retain  her  icy  ped- 
estal, and  she  struggled  the  less  against  her  laugh- 
ter. Indeed,  with  a  sudden  fright,  she  found  her 
laughter  growing  nervous.  She,  the  head  waitress, 
was  perturbed,  alarmed ! 

Sam  followed  up  his  advantage  royally.  "  I  can 
work  'em  both  to  onct ! "  he  exclaimed  trium- 
phantly. And  did  so.  "  There !  They  was  a  boy  in 
our  school  onct  that  could  work  his  airs  one  at  a 
time,  but  I  never  did  see  no  one  else  but  me  that 
could  work  'em  both  to  onct.  Look  a-here !  "  He 
waggled  his  ears  ecstatically.  The  reserve  of  Nora 
oozed,  waned,  vanished. 

Even  the  sternest  fibre  must  at  length  succumb 
under  prolonged  Herculean  endeavour.  No  man 
may  long  continuously  wag  his  ears,  even  alternate- 
ly; therefore  Sam  perforce  paused  in  time.  Yet 
by  that  time — in  what  manner  it  occurred  no  one 
may  know — Nora  was  seated  on  the  chair  next  to 
him  at  the  table.  They  were  alone.  Silence  fell. 
Nora's  hand  moved  nervously  among  the  spoons. 
Upon  it  dropped  the  mutilated  one  of  Sam. 

"  Nory,"  said  he,  "  I'd— I'd  work  'em  all  my  life 
— fer  you !  "  And  to  Nora,  who  turned  away  her 
head  now,  not  for  the  purpose  of  hiding  a  smile,  this 
seemed  always  a  perfectly  fit  and  proper  declaration 
of  this  man's  regard. 

"  I  know  I'm  no  good,"  murmured  Sam.     "  I'm 


THE  ARTFULNESS  OF  SAM  345 

a  awful  coward.  I-I-I've  1-1-loved  you  ever  sence 
the  fust  time  that  I  seen  you,  but  I  was  such  a 
coward,  I — I  couldn't — couldn't " 

"  You're  not !  "  cried  Nora  imperiously. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  am,"  said  Sam. 

"  Look  at  them,"  said  Nora,  almost  touching  his 
crippled  fingers.  "  Don't  I  know  ?  " 

"  Oh,  that,"  said  Sam,  hiding  the  hand  under 
the  droop  of  the  tablecloth.  "Why,  that?  I  got 
froze  some,  a-drivin'." 

"  Yes,  and,"  said  Nora  accusingly,  "  how  did 
you  get  froze?  A-drivin'  'way  down  there,  in  the 
storm,  after  folks.  No  one  else'd  go." 

"  Why,  yes,  Cap  Franklin,  he  went,"  said  Sam. 
"  That  wasn't  nothin'.  Why,  o'  course  we'd  go." 

"  No  one  else  wouldn't,  though." 

Sam  wondered.  "  I  was  always  too  much  a 
coward  to  say  a  word  to  you,"  he  began.  And  then 
an  awful  doubt  sat  on  his  soul. 

"  Nory,"  he  resumed  solemnly,  "  did  ever  any 
feller  say  anything  to  you  about  my — I-I-I — well, 
my  lovin'  you  ?  " 

"I  should  say  not!"  said  Nora.  "I'd  a' 
slapped  his  face,  mighty  quick !  What  busi- 
ness  " 

"  Not  never  a  single  one  ?  "  said  Sam,  his  face 
brightening. 

"No,  'ndeed.    Why,  I'd  like  to  know?    Did 
you  ever  ask  any  one  to !  " 
23 


346     THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

"  I  should  say  not !  "  said  Sam,  with  the  only  lie 
he  ever  told,  and  one  most  admirable.  "  I  should 
say  not ! "  he  repeated  with  emphasis,  and  in  tones 
which  carried  conviction  even  to  himself. 

"You'd  better  not!"  said  Nora.  "I  wouldn't 
of  had  you  if  they  had !  " 

Sam  started.  "What's  that,  Nory?"  he  said. 
"  Say  that  ag'in !  Did  you  say  you  wouldn't  of  had 
me — you  wouldn't  off"  His  hand  found  hers 
again. 

"  Yes,"  faltered  Nora,  seeing  herself  entrapped 
by  her  own  speech. 

"  Then,  Nory,"  said  Sam  firmly,  casting  a  big 
arm  about  her  waist,  "  if  you  wouldn't  of  had  me 
then,  I  reckon  now  you  do"  And  neither  from  this 
subtlety  nor  from  the  sturdy  arm  did  Nora  seek  eva- 
sion, though  she  tugged  faintly  at  the  fingers  which 
held  fast  her  waist. 

"  I  don't  care,"  she  murmured  vaguely.  "  There 
ain't  no  coward  would  of  done  it !  "  Whereat  Sam, 
seeing  himself  a  hero,  wisely  accepted  fate  and 
ceased  to  argue.  The  big  arm  tightened  manfully, 
and  into  his  blue  eyes  came  the  look  of  triumph. 

"  Nory,"  whispered  he  loyally,  "  I'll  never  work 
my  airs  ag'in  for  any  woman  in  the  world  but  you !  " 


CHAPTER   XXXV 

THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

FRANKLIN  found  himself  swept  along  with  a 
tide  of  affairs  other  than  of  his  own  choosing.  His 
grasp  on  the  possibilities  of  the  earliest  days  of  this 
new  civilization  had  been  so  full  and  shrewd  that 
he  needed  now  but  to  let  others  build  the  house 
whose  foundation  he  had  laid.  This  in  effect  has 
been  the  history  of  most  men  who  have  become 
wealthy,  the  sum  of  one  man's  efforts  being  in  no 
great  disparity  actually  superior  to  those  of  his 
fellow-man. 

Yet  Franklin  cared  little  for  mere  riches,  his 
ambition  ceasing  at  that  point  where  he  might  have 
independence,  where  he  might  be  himself,  and 
where  he  might  work  out  unfettered  the  problems 
of  his  own  individuality.  Pursued  by  a  prosperity 
which  would  not  be  denied,  his  properties  growing 
up  about  him,  his  lands  trebling  in  value  within  a 
year  and  his  town  property  rising  steadily  in  value, 
he  sometimes  smiled  in  very  grimness  as  he  thought 
of  what  this  had  once  and  so  recently  been,  and 
how  far  beyond  his  own  care  the  progress  of  his 

347 


348     THE  GIRL  AT  THE   HALFWAY  HOUSE 

fortunes  had  run.  At  times  he  reflected  upon  this 
almost  with  regret,  realizing  strongly  the  tempta- 
tion to  plunge  irrevocably  into  the  battle  of  material 
things.  This,  he  knew,  meant  a  loosing,  a  letting 
go,  a  surrender  of  his  inner  and  honourable  dreams, 
an  evasion  of  that  beckoning  hand  and  a  forgetting 
of  that  summoning  voice  which  bade  him  to  labour 
agonizingly  yet  awhile  toward  other  aims.  The 
inner  man,  still  exigent,  now  exhorted,  now  de- 
manded, and  always  rebelled.  Franklin's  face  grew 
older.  Not  all  who  looked  upon  him  understood, 
for  to  be  hors  concours  is  to  be  accursed. 

Something  was  left  to  be  desired  in  the  vigour 
and  energy  of  Franklin's  daily  life,  once  a  daily  joy 
in  virile  effort  and  exertion.  Still  too  much  a  man 
to  pity  himself,  none  the  less  he  brooded.  His 
hopes  and  dreams,  he  reflected,  had  once  flowered 
so  beautifully,  had  shown  so  fair  for  one  brief  sum- 
mer day,  and  lay  now  so  dead  and  shrivelled  and 
undone !  There  was  no  comfort  in  these  later  days. 

And  then  he  thought  yearningly  of  the  forceful 
drama  of  the  wild  life  which  had  shrunk  so  rapidly 
into  the  humdrum  of  the  uneventful.  At  times  he 
felt  a  wild  yearning  to  follow  this  frontier — to  follow 
till  the  West  sunk  into  the  sea,  and  even  then  to  fol- 
low, until  he  came  to  some  Fortunate  Islands  where 
such  glorious  days  should  die  no  more.  He  re- 
called the  wild  animals  and  the  wild  men  he  had 
known,  and  saw  again  the  mocking  face  of  the  old 


THE  HILL  OF  DREAMS  349 

wide  plains,  shifting  and  evading,  even  as  the  spirit 
of  his  own  life  evaded  him,  answering  no  questions 
directly,  always  beckoning,  yet  always  with  finger 
upon  lip,  forbidding  speech.  Almost  with  exulta- 
tion he  joined  in  the  savage  resentment  of  this  land 
laid  under  tribute,  he  joined  in  the  pitiless  scorn  of 
the  savage  winter,  he  almost  justified  in  his  own 
soul  the  frosted  pane  and  the  hearth  made  cold,  and 
the  settlers*  homes  forever  desolated. 

Yet  ever  a  chill  struck  Franklin's  soul  as  he 
thought  of  the  lost  battle  at  the  Halfway  House. 
There  was  now  grass  grown  upon  the  dusty  trail 
that  once  led  up  to  the  low-eaved  house.  The 
green  and  gray  of  Nature  were  shrouding  busily  the 
two  lonely  graves  of  those  who  had  fought  the 
frontier  and  been  vanquished  in  that  night  of  terror, 
when  the  old  West  claimed  its  own.  The  Halfway 
House  of  old  was  but  a  memory.  It  had  served  its 
purpose,  had  fulfilled  its  mission,  and  those  who 
once  ruled  it  now  were  gone.  The  wild  herds  and 
the  wild  men  came  there  no  longer,  and  there  were 
neither  hosts  nor  those  needing  hospitality.  And 
Mary  Ellen,  the  stately  visitant  of  his  sleeping  or 
his  waking  dreams,  no  longer  might  be  seen  in 
person  at  the  Halfway  House.  Recreant,  defeated, 
but  still  refusing  aid,  she  had  gone  back  to  her  land 
of  flowers.  It  was  Franklin's  one  comfort  that  she 
had  never  known  into  whose  hands  had  passed — at 
a  price  far  beyond  their  actual  worth — the  lands  of 


350     THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

the  Halfway  House,  which  had  so  rapidly  built  up 
for  her  a  competency,  which  had  cleared  her  of 
poverty,  only  to  re-enforce  her  in  her  pride. 

Under  all  the  fantastic  grimness,  all  the  mysti- 
cism, all  the  discredited  and  riotous  vagaries  of 
his  insubordinate  soul,  Franklin  possessed  a  saving 
common  sense ;  yet  it  was  mere  freakishness  which 
led  him  to  accept  a  vagrant  impulse  as  the  control- 
ling motive  at  the  crucial  moment  of  his  life.  His 
nature  was  not  more  imaginative  than  compre- 
hensive. 

To  a  very  few  men  Edward  Franklin  has  ad- 
mitted that  he  once  dreamed  of  a  hill  topped  by  a 
little  fire,  whose  smoke  dipped  and  waved  and 
caught  him  in  its  fold.  In  brief,  he  got  into  saddle, 
and  journeyed  to  the  Hill  of  Dreams. 

The  Hill  of  Dreams  dominated  the  wide  and 
level  landscape  over  which  it  had  looked  out 
through  hundreds  of  slow,  unnoted  years.  From  it 
once  rose  the  signal  smokes  of  the  red  men,  and 
here  it  was  that  many  a  sentinel  had  stood  in  times 
long  before  a  white  face  was  ever  seen  upon  the 
Plains.  Here  often  was  erected  the  praying  lodge 
of  the  young  aspirant  for  wisdom,  who  stood  there 
and  lifted  up  his  hands,  saying :  "  O  sun !  O  air ! 
O  earth!  O  spirits,  hear  me  pray!  Give  me  aid, 
give  me  wisdom,  so  that  I  may  know ! " 

Here  on  the  Hill  of  Dreams,  whence  the  eye 


THE   HILL  OF  DREAMS  351 

might  sweep  to  the  fringed  sand  hills  on  the  south, 
east  to  the  river  many  miles  away,  and  north  and 
west  almost  to  the  swell  of  the  cold  steppes  that  lead 
up  to  the  Rocky  Range,  the  red  men  had  sometimes 
come  to  lay  their  leaders  when  their  day  of  hunting 
and  of  war  was  over.  Thus  the  place  came  to  have 
extraordinary  and  mysterious  qualities  ascribed  to 
it,  on  which  account,  in  times  gone  by,  men  who 
were  restless,  troubled,  disturbed,  dissatisfied,  came 
thither  to  fast  and  pray.  Here  they  builded  their 
little  fires,  and  here,  night  and  day,  they  besought 
the  sky,  the  sun,  the  firmament  to  send  to  them  each 
his  "  dream,"  his  unseen  counsellor,  which  should 
speak  to  him  out  of  its  more  than  earthly  wisdom. 

When  the  young  man  was  troubled  and  knew 
not  which  course  he  should  pursue,  he  went  up  to 
this  hill  alone,  and  so  laid  hold  upon  Fate  that  it  fain 
communed  with  him.  He  held  up  his  hands  at 
night  to  the  stars,  very  far  above  him,  and  asked 
that  they  should  witness  him  and  be  merciful,  for 
that  he  was  small  and  weak,  and  knew  not  why 
things  should  be  as  they  were.  He  called  upon  the 
spirits  of  the  great  dead  about  him  to  witness  the 
sincerity  of  his  prayer.  He  placed  offerings  to  the 
Dream  People.  He  prayed  to  the  sun  as  it  rose, 
and  besought  it  of  its  strength  to  strengthen  him. 

Sometimes  when  a  young  man  had  gone  up  alone 
from  the  village  to  this  hill  to  pray,  there  were  seen 
at  night  more  forms  than  one  walking  upon  the 


352      THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

summit  of  the  hill,  and  sometimes  voices  were 
heard.  Then  it  was  known  that  the  young  man 
had  seen  his  "  dream,"  and  that  they  had  held  a 
council. 

Very  many  men  had  thus  prayed  upon  the 
summit  of  the  Hill  of  Dreams  in  the  days  gone 
by.  Its  top  was  strewn  with  offerings.  It  was  a 
sacred  place.  Sometimes  the  stone  cairns  did  not 
withstand  the  wolves,  but  none  the  less  the  place 
was  consecrate.  Hither  they  bore  the  great  dead. 
It  was  upon  the  Hill  of  Dreams  that  his  people 
buried  White  Calf,  the  last  great  leader  of  the  Plains 
tribes,  who  fell  in  the  combat  with  the  not  less 
savage  giant  who  came  with  the  white  men  to 
hunt  in  the  country  near  the  Hill  of  Dreams. 
Since  that  time  the  power  of  the  Plains  tribes  had 
waned,  and  they  had  scattered  and  passed  away. 
The  swarming  white  men — Visigoths,  Vandals — had 
found  out  this  spot  for  centuries  held  mysteriously 
dear  to  the  first  peoples  of  that  country.  They  tore 
open  the  graves,  scattered  the  childlike  emblems, 
picked  to  pieces  the  little  packages  of  furs  and  claws, 
jibing  at  the  "  medicine "  which  in  its  time  had 
meant  so  much  to  the  man  who  had  left  it  there. 

The  Visigoths  and  Vandals  laughed  and  smote 
upon  their  thighs  as  they  thus  destroyed  the  feeble 
records  of  a  faith  gone  by.  Yet  with  what  more 
enduring  and  with  how  dissimilar  a  faith  did  they 
replace  that  at  which  they  mocked?  White  but 


THE   HILL  OF  DREAMS  353 

parallels  red.  Our  ways  depart  not  widely  from  the 
ways  of  those  whom  we  supplanted,  our  religion  is 
little  more  than  theirs,  our  tokens  of  faith  but  little 
different  from  theirs.  We  still  wonder,  we  still  be- 
seech, we  still  grope,  and  continually  we  implore. 
On  the  eminences  of  our  lives  the  solitary  still  keep 
vigil.  In  the  air  about  us  there  still  are  Voices 
as  of  old,  there  still  are  visions  wistfully  besought. 
Now,  as  then,  dwarfed,  blighted,  wandering  human- 
ity prays,  lifting  up  its  hands  to  something  above 
its  narrow,  circumscribing  world.  Now,  as  then, 
the  answer  is  sometimes  given  to  a  few  for  all. 
Now,  as  then,  the  solemn  front  of  the  Hill  of 
Dreams  still  rises,  dominating  calmly  the  wide  land, 
keeping  watch  always  out  over  the  plains  for  those 
who  are  to  come,  for  that  which  is  to  be.  War- 
den of  destiny,  it  well  might  smile  at  any  tem- 
ples we  may  build,  at  any  fetiches  that  we  may 
offer  up! 

Toward  the  Hill  of  Dreams  Franklin  journeyed, 
because  it  had  been  written.  As  he  travelled  over 
the  long  miles  he  scarcely  noted  the  fields,  the 
fences,  the  flocks  and  herds  now  clinging  along  the 
path  of  the  iron  rails.  He  crossed  the  trails  of  the 
departed  buffalo  and  of  the  vanishing  cattle,  but 
his  mind  looked  only  forward,  and  he  saw  these 
records  of  the  past  but  dimly.  There,  on  the  Hill 
of  Dreams,  he  knew,  there  was  answer  for  him  if 
he  sufficiently  besought;  that  answer  not  yet 
24 


354     THE   GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

learned  in  all  the  varying  days.     It  seemed  sure  to 
him  that  he  should  have  a  sign.* 

Franklin  looked  out  over  a  deserted  and  solitary 
land  as  he  rode  up  to  the  foot  of  the  hill.  There 
\vere  no  longer  banners  of  dust  where  the  wild  game 
swept  by,  nor  did  the  eye  catch  any  line  of  distant 
horsemen.  It  was  another  day.  Yet,  as  did  the 
candidate  of  old,  he  left  his  horse  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill  and  went  up  quite  alone. 

It  was  afternoon  as  he  sat  down.  The  silence 
and  solitude  folded  him  about,  and  the  sun  sank  so 
fitly  slow  that  he  hardly  knew,  and  the  solemn  night 
swept  softly  on.  .  .  .  Then  he  built  a  little  fire. 
...  In  the  night,  after  many  hours,  he  arose  and 
lifted  up  his  hands.  ...  At  the  foot  of  the  hill  the 
pony  stopped  cropping  grass,  tossed  his  head,  and 
looked  up  intently  at  the  summit. 

It  was  morning.  The  sun  rose  calm  and  strong. 
The  solitary  figure  upon  the  hill  sat  motionless, 

*  Before  his  twenty-ninth  year  Edward  Franklin's  hair 
had  always  been  a  dark  reddish  brown.  When  he  returned 
from  a  certain  journey  it  was  noticed  that  upon  his  temple 
there  was  a  lock  of  snowy  whiteness.  Shon-to,  a  Cheyenne 
Indian,  once  noticed  this  and  said  to  Franklin  :  "You  have 
slept  upon  the  Dreaming  Hill,  and  a  finger  has  touched  you  ! 
Among  my  people  there  was  a  man  who  had  a  spot  of  white 
in  his  hair,  and  his  father  had  this  spot,  and  his  son  after 
him.  These  men  were  thought  to  have  been  touched  by  the 
finger  of  a  dream  many  years  ago.  These  men  could  see  in 
the  dark."  The  Indian  said  this  confidently. 


THE   HILL  OF   DREAMS 


355 


looking  out.  There  might  have  passed  before  him 
a  perspective  of  the  past,  the  Plains  peopled  with 
their  former  life;  the  oncoming  of  the  white  men 
from  below ;  the  remnant  of  the  passing  Latin  race, 
typified  in  the  unguided  giant  who,  savage  with  sav- 
age, fought  here  near  by,  one  brutal  force  meeting 
another  and  both  passing  before  one  higher  and  yet 
more  strong.  To  this  watcher  it  seemed  that  he 
looked  out  from  the  halfway  point  of  the  nation, 
from  the  halfway  house  of  a  nation's  irresistible  de- 
velopment. 

Franklin  had  taken  with  him  a  small  canteen  of 
water,  but  bethinking  himself  that  as  of  old  the 
young  man  beseeching  his  dream  neither  ate  nor 
drank  until  he  had  his  desire,  he  poured  out  the 
water  at  his  side  as  he  sat  in  the  dark.  The  place 
was  covered  with  small  objects,  bits  of  strewn  shells 
and  beads  and  torn  "  medicine  bundles  " — pieces  of 
things  once  held  dear  in  earlier  minds.  He  felt  his 
hand  fall  by  accident  upon  some  small  object  which 
had  been  wetted  by  the  wasted  water.  Later,  in  the 
crude  light  of  the  tiny  flame  which  he  had  kindled, 
this  lump  of  earth  assumed,  to  his  exalted  fancy,  the 
grim  features  of  an  Indian  chieftain,  wide-jawed,  be- 
tufted,  with  low  brow,  great  mouth,  and  lock  of 
life's  price  hanging  down  the  neck.  All  the  fear- 
lessness, the  mournfulness,  the  mysticism  of  the 
Indian  face  was  there.  Franklin  always  said  that 


356     THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

he  had  worked  at  this  unconsciously,  kneading  the 
lump  between  his  fingers,  and  giving  it  no  thought 
other  than  that  it  felt  cooling  to  his  hand  and  restful 
to  his  mind.  Yet  here,  born  ultimately  of  the  trav- 
ail of  a  higher  mind,  was  a  man  from  another  time, 
in  whose  gaze  sat  the  prescience  of  a  coming  day. 
The  past  and  the  future  thus  were  bridged,  as  may 
be  done  only  by  Art,  the  enduring,  the  uncalen- 
dared,  the  imperishable. 

Shall  we  say  that  this  could  not  have  been? 
Shall  we  say  that  Art  may  not  be  born  in  a  land  so 
young?  Shall  we  say  that  Art  may  not  deal  with 
things  uncatalogued,  and  dare  not  treat  of  unac- 
cepted things?  Nay,  rather  let  us  say  that  Art, 
being  thought,  has  this  divine  right  of  elective 
birth.  For  out  of  tortures  Art  had  here  won  the 
deep  imprimitur. 

Edward  Franklin,  a  light-hearted  man,  rode 
homeward  happily.  The  past  lay  correlated,  and 
for  the  future  there  were  no  longer  any  wonderings. 
His  dream,  devoutly  sought,  had  given  peace. 


CHAPTER   XXXVI 

AT  THE   GATEWAY 

IN  a  certain  old  Southern  city  there  stands,  as 
there  has  stood  for  many  generations,  and  will  no 
doubt  endure  for  many  more,  a  lofty  mansion 
whose  architecture  dates  back  to  a  distant  day. 
Wide  and  spacious,  with  lofty  stories,  with  deep 
wings  and  many  narrow  windows,  it  rests  far  back 
among  the  ancient  oaks,  a  stately  memorial  of  a  day 
when  gentlemen  demanded  privacy  and  could  af- 
ford it.  From  the  iron  pillars  of  the  great  gateway 
the  white  front  of  the  house  may  barely  be  seen 
through  avenues  made  by  the  trunks  of  the  prime- 
val grove.  The  tall  white  columns,  reaching  from 
gallery  floor  to  roof  without  pause  for  the  second 
lofty  floor,  give  dignity  to  this  old-time  abode, 
which  comports  well  with  the  untrimmed  patri- 
archal oaks.  Under  these  trees  there  lies,  even  to- 
day, a  deep  blue-grass  turf  which  never,  from  the 
time  of  Boone  till  now,  has  known  the  touch  of 
ploughshare  or  the  tool  of  any  cultivation. 

It  was  the  boast  of  this  old  family  that  it  could 
afford  to  own  a  portion  of  the  earth  and  own  it  as 

357 


358     THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY  HOUSE 

it  came  from  the  hand  of  Nature.  Uncaught  by  the 
whirl  of  things,  undisturbed  essentially  even  by  the 
tide  of  the  civil  war,  this  branch  of  an  old  Southern 
family  had  lived  on  in  station  unaffected,  though 
with  fortune  perhaps  impaired  as  had  been  those 
of  many  Southern  families,  including  all  the  Beau- 
champ  line. 

To  this  strong  haven  of  refuge  had  come  Mary 
Ellen  Beauchamp  from  the  far-off  Western  plains, 
after  the  death  of  her  other  relatives  in  that  venture 
so  ill-starred.  The  white-haired  old  widow  who 
now  represented  the  head  of  the  Clayton  family — 
her  kin  somewhat  removed,  but  none  the  less  her 
"  cousins,"  after  the  comprehensive  Southern  fash- 
ion— had  taken  Mary  Ellen  to  her  bosom,  upbraid- 
ing her  for  ever  dreaming  of  going  into  the  barba- 
rian West,  and  listening  but  little  to  the  plea  of  the 
girl  that  poverty  had  driven  her  to  the  company  of 
those  who,  like  herself,  were  poor.  Now,  such  had 
been  the  turn  of  the  wheel,  the  girl  was  nearly  as 
rich  in  money  as  her  older  relative,  and  able  to 
assume  what  little  of  social  position  there  remained 
in  her  ambition. 

Mary  Ellen  was  now  well  past  twenty-seven,  a 
tall,  matured,  and  somewhat  sad-faced  woman,  upon 
her  brow  written  something  of  the  sorrows  and  un- 
certainties of  the  homeless  woman,  as  well  as  the 
record  of  a  growing  self-reliance.  If  Mary  Ellen 
were  happy  or  not  none  might  say,  yet  surely  she 


AT   THE  GATEWAY  359 

was  dutiful  and  kind;  and  gradually,  with  some- 
thing of  the  leadership  she  had  learned  in  her  recent 
life,  she  slipped  into  practical  domestic  command  of 
this  quiet  but  punctilious  menage.  By  reason  of 
an  equal  executive  fitness  Aunt  Lucy  rose  in  the 
kitchen  also  into  full  command.  The  Widow  Clay- 
ton found  her  cousin  Mary  Ellen  a  stay  and  com- 
fort, useful  and  practical  to  a  degree  unknown  in 
the  education  of  the  Southern  young  lady  of  the 
time. 

Of  her  life  in  the  West  Mary  Ellen  spoke  but 
little,  though  never  with  harshness,  and  at  times 
almost  with  wistfulness.  Her  history  had  seemed 
too  full  of  change  to  be  reality.  For  the  future  she 
made  no  plans.  It  seemed  to  her  to  be  her  fate  ever 
to  be  an  alien,  a  looker-on.  The  roses  drooped 
across  her  lattice,  and  the  blue  grass  stood  cool  and 
soft  and  deep  beyond  her  window,  and  the  kind  air 
carried  the  croon  of  the  wooing  mocking  bird; 
yet  there  persisted  in  her  brain  the  picture  of 
a  wide,  gray  land,  with  the  sound  of  an  urgent 
wind  singing  in  the  short,  tufted  grasses,  and 
the  breath  of  a  summons  ever  on  the  air.  Out 
there  upon  the  Plains  it  had  been  ever  morning. 
Here  life  seemed  ever  sinking  toward  its  evening- 
tide. 

This  old  family  and  the  family  house  were  ac- 
cepted unquestioningly  by  the  quiet  Southern  com- 
munity now,  as  they  had  ever  been,  as  a  part  of  the 


360     THE  GIRL  AT   THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

aristocracy  of  the  land,  and  as  appurtenances  there- 
to. The  way  of  life  had  little  change.  The  same 
grooms  led  out  the  horses  from  the  stables,  the 
same  slow  figures  cut  the  grass  upon  the  lawn.  Yet 
no  longer  were  the  doors  thrown  open  upon  a  sea 
of  light  and  colour.  The  horses  were  groomed  and 
broken,  but  they  brought  no  great  carriage  of  state 
sweeping  up  the  drive  between  the  lion-headed  pil- 
lars of  the  gateway.  When  Mrs.  Clayton  feebly 
sought  to  propose  brighter  ways  of  life  for  the 
young  woman,  the  latter  told  her  gently  that  for 
her,  too,  life  was  planned  and  done,  the  struggle 
over,  and  that  she  asked  only  that  she  might  rest, 
and  not  take  up  again  any  questions  for  readjust- 
ment. 

"  You  will  change  after  a  while,  honey,"  said  her 
protectress;  but  Mary  Ellen  only  smiled.  It  was 
enough  to  rest  here  in  this  haven,  safe  from  the 
surging  seas  of  doubt  and  hope  and  fear,  of  love 
and  self-distrust.  Let  it  be  settled.  Let  it  be 
ended.  Let  these  tall  white  columns  mark  the 
grave  of  her  heart.  Let  this  wide  sea  of  green  mir- 
ror that  which  should  one  day  lie  above  her  bosom 
in  this  land  of  finished  things.  Let  the  great  lion 
gates  guard  off  all  intrusion,  all  curiosity,  even  all 
well-intended  courtesy.  For  her  no  cavalier  should 
ever  come  riding  up  the  gravelled  way,  nor  should 
lights  ever  set  dancing  again  the  shadows  in  the 
great  dining  hall  over  the  heads  of  guests  assembled 


AT   THE   GATEWAY  361 

in  her  honour.  It  was  done — finished.  And  Mary 
Ellen  was  not  yet  twenty-eight. 

One  morning  the  little  street  car  stood,  as  was 
its  wont,  at  the  terminus  of  the  track,  near  the  front 
of  the  wide  grounds  of  the  old  mansion  house. 
This  was  far  out  upon  the  edge  of  the  little  city,  and 
few  were  the  patrons  that  might  be  expected;  but 
it  was  held  but  mere  courtesy  to  offer  the  services 
of  the  street-car  line  to  this  family,  so  long  recog- 
nised as  one  of  the  unimpeachably  best  of  this 
Southern  city.  This  modern  innovation  of  the 
street  car  was  not  readily  taken  up  by  the  conserva- 
tive community,  and  though  it  had  been  established 
for  some  years,  it  might  be  questioned  whether  its 
shares  had  ever  paid  much  interest  upon  their  face 
value.  Now  and  then  a  negress  with  a  laundry 
bundle,  a  schoolgirl  with  her  books,  a  clerk  hurry- 
ing to  his  counter,  might  stop  the  lazy  mules  and 
confer  the  benefit  of  an  infrequent  coin. 

At  this  terminus  of  the  line  at  the  outskirts  of 
the  town  there  was  each  morning  enacted  the  same 
little  scene.  The  driver  slowly  unhitched  his  mules 
and  turned  them  about  to  the  other  end  of  the  car, 
in  readiness  for  the  return  journey.  Matters  hav- 
ing progressed  this  far,  the  mules  fell  at  once  into 
a  deep  state  of  dejection  and  somnolence,  their  ears 
lopping  down,  their  bodies  drooping  and  motion- 
less, save  as  now  and  then  a  faint  swish  of  tail  or 
wag  of  a  weary  ear  bespoke  the  knowledge  of  some 


362     THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

bold,  marauding  fly.  The  driver,  perched  upon  his 
seat,  his  feet  upon  the  rail,  his  knees  pushed  toward 
his  chin,  sat  with  his  broad  hat  drawn  down  upon 
his  forehead,  his  hands  clasped  between  his  legs,  and 
all  his  attitude  indicative  of  rest.  Slow  clouds  of 
dust  passed  along  the  road  near  by,  and  the  glare 
of  the  sun  grew  warm;  but  no  motion  came  to 
either  team  or  driver,  undisturbed  by  any  care  and 
bound  by  no  inconvenient  schedule.  From  the  big 
oaks  came  now  and  then  the  jangle  of  a  jay,  or  there 
might  be  seen  flitting  the  scarlet  flame  of  the  car- 
dinal. These  things  were  unnoted,  and  the  hour 
droned  on. 

Presently  from  a  side  street,  faced  by  a  large 
brick  dwelling,  there  came  with  regular  and  unhur- 
ried tread  a  tall  and  dignified  figure,  crowned  with 
a  soft  Panama,  and  tapping  with  official  cane.  As 
it  approached  the  car  the  driver  straightened  a  trifle 
on  the  seat. 

"  Good  mawnin',  Judge  Wilson,"  he  said. 

"  Uh-ah,  good  mawnin',  James,"  replied  the 
judge.  "  Uh-ah,  Doctah  Gregg  li'l  late  this  mawn- 
in',  eh?" 

"  Yessah,  seems  like,"  said  the  driver,  his  head 
again  falling. 

In  perhaps  five  or  ten  minutes,  perhaps  half  an 
hour,  there  would  be  heard  the  tapping  of  another 
cane,  and  Dr.  Gregg,  also  tall,  not  quite  so  portly, 
and  wearing  a  white  beaver  instead  of  a  soft  Pana- 


AT   THE  GATEWAY  363 

ma,  would  appear  from  the  opening  of  yet  another 
side  street  tributary  to  the  car. 

"  Good  mawnin',  James,"  said  the  doctor  as  he 
passed ;  and  the  driver  answered  respectfully. 

"  Good  mornin',  Doctah.  You  li'l  late  this 
mornin',  seems  like." 

"  Well,  yessah,  I  may  be  a  leetle  late,  just  a  lee- 
tie. — Good  mawnin',  Judge;  how  are  you  this 
mawnin',  sah  ?  " 

"  Very  well,  Doctah,  sah,  thank  you,  sah.  Step 
in  an'  seddown.  Right  wahm,  this  mawnin'.  Uh- 
ah!" 

So  the  judge  and  the  doctor  sat  down  in  the  car, 
and  conversed,  easily  and  in  no  haste,  perhaps  for 
five  or  ten  minutes,  perhaps  for  half  an  hour.  Now 
and  then  the  driver  cast  a  glance  out  of  the  side  of 
his  eye  over  toward  the  lion-headed  gates,  but  no 
one  was  uneasy  or  anxious.  The  mules  were  to 
apparent  view  very  sad  and  still,  yet  really  very 
happy  within  their  souls. 

"  Young  lady  li'l  late  this  mawnin',  seems  like," 
remarked  the  judge. 

"  Oh,  yes,  but  she'll  be  'long  direckly,  I  reckon," 
replied  the  doctor.  "  You  know  how  'bout  these 
young  folks.  They  don't  always  realize  the  im- 
pohtance  o'  pressin'  business  mattehs.  But  we 
must  fo'give  heh,  Judge,  we  must  fo'give  heh,  foil 
she  suhtinly  is  well  wo'th  waitin'  foh ;  yes  indeed." 

"  Uh-ah !     quite    right,    Doctah,    quite    right ! 


364     THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY  HOUSE 

Fine  young  lady,  fine  young  lady.  Old  stock,  yes 
indeed !  Beechams  o'  Fehginny.  Too  bad  Cousin* 
Sarann  Clayton  keeps  heh  so  close  like.  She  fitten 
to  be  received,  sah,  to  be  received ! " 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  assented  the  doctor.  "  Yes,  sah. 
Now,  ain't  that  the  young  lady  a-comin'  down  the 
walk?" 

Judge  and  doctor  and  driver  now  turned  their 
gaze  beyond  the  lion-headed  gateway  to  the  wind- 
ing walk  that  passed  among  the  trees  up  to  the  old 
mansion  house.  Far  off,  through  the  great  col- 
umns of  the  trees,  there  might  indeed  this  morning 
now  be  seen  the  flutter  of  a  gown  of  white.  The 
faint  sound  of  voices  might  be  heard.  Mary  Ellen, 
conscientious  marketer,  was  discussing  joints  and 
salads  with  her  aunt.  And  then  Mary  Ellen,  de- 
liberately tying  the  strings  of  her  bonnet  under 
her  chin,  turned,  answering  her  aunt's  summons 
for  replevin  of  a  forgotten  fan.  Then,  slowly, 
calmly,  the  gown  of  white  became  more  distinct 
as  she  came  nearer,  her  tall  figure  composing 
well  with  the  setting  of  this  scene.  For  her 
patiently  waited  the  judge  and  the  doctor  and  the 
driver. 

"  Good  mawnin',  Miss  Beecham,"  said  the  driver 
as  she  passed,  touching  his  hat  and  infusing  more 
stiffness  to  his  spine. 

"  Good  morning,  sir,"  she  replied  pleasantly. 

"  Uh-ah,  good  mawnin',  Miss  Beecham,  good 


AT  THE  GATEWAY  365 

mawnin',"  said  Judge  Wilson ;  and  "  Good  mawn- 
in,"  said  Dr.  Gregg. 

"  Good  morning,  Judge  Wilson/*  replied  Mary 
Ellen,  as  she  entered  the  car. — "  Good  morning,  Dr. 
Gregg."  The  gentlemen  made  way  for  her  upon 
the  shady  side  of  the  car,  and  lifted  their  hats  cere- 
moniously. 

"  L'il  late  this  mawhin',  Miss  Beecham,  seems 
like,"  said  the  judge,  with  no  trace  of  resentment 
in  his  tones. 

Dr.  Gregg  upon  this  morning  began  his  cus- 
tomary reproach  also,  but  it  halted  upon  his  tongue. 
"  Miss  Beecham/'  he  said,  "  pardon  me,  allow  me — 
are  you  ill  ?  " 

For  Mary  Ellen,  settling  herself  for  her  regular 
morning  ride  with  her  regular  companions,  all  at 
once  went  pale  as  she  gazed  out  the  window.  She 
scarcely  heard  the  kind  remark.  She  was  looking 
at  a  man — a  tall  man  with  a  brown  face,  with  broad 
shoulders,  with  a  long,  swinging,  steady  stride. 
This  man  was  coming  up  the  side  of  the  street, 
along  the  path  between  the  fence  and  the  burdocks 
that  lined  the  ditch.  His  shoes  were  white  with  the 
limestone  dust,  but  he  seemed  to  care  nothing  for 
his  way  of  locomotion,  but  reached  on,  his  head  up, 
his  eye  searching  eagerly. 

Not  with  equipage,  not  mounted  as  a  Southern 
cavalier,  not  announced,  but  in  the  most  direct  and 
swiftest  way  in  his  power  had  Edward  Franklin 


366     THE  GIRL  AT   THE   HALFWAY   HOUSE 

come.  Strong,  eager,  masterful,  scorning  the  blaz- 
ing sun,  his  reckless  waste  of  energy  marked  him  as 
a  stranger  in  that  place.  He  stopped  at  the  gate- 
way for  one  moment,  looking  up  the  path,  and  then 
turned  swiftly  toward  the  car  as  though  called 
audibly. 

As  with  a  flash  his  face  lighted,  and  he  strode 
straight  on  toward  a  woman  whose  heart  was  throb- 
bing in  a  sudden  tumultuous  terror.  She  saw  him 
stoop  at  the  car  door,  even  as  once  before  she  had 
seen  him  enter  at  another  lowly  door,  in  another 
and  far-off  land.  She  felt  again  the  fear  which  then 
she  half  admitted.  But  in  a  moment  Mary  Ellen 
knew  that  all  fear  and  all  resistance  were  too  late. 

The  eyes  of  Franklin,  direct,  assured,  almost 
sad,  asked  her  no  question,  but  only  said,  "  Here 
am  I ! "  And  Mary  Ellen  knew  that  she  could  no 
longer  make  denial  or  delay.  Her  thoughts  came 
rapid  and  confused ;  her  eyes  swam ;  her  heart  beat 
fast.  Afar  she  heard  the  singing  of  a  mocker  in 
the  oaks,  throbbing,  thrilling  high  and  sweet  as 
though  his  heart  would  break  with  what  he  had 
to  say. 

Judge  Wilson  and  Dr.  Gregg  politely  removed 
their  hats  as  Franklin  entered  the  car  and  addressed 
Mary  Ellen.  Confused  by  the  abruptness  of  it  all, 
it  was  a  moment  before  she  recognised  local  re- 
quirements, and  presented  Franklin  to  the  gentle- 
men. For  an  instant  she  planned  flight,  escape. 


AT   THE   GATEWAY  367 

She  would  have  begged  Franklin  to  return  with 
her.  Fate  in  the  form  of  the  driver  had  its  way. 
"  Git  ep,  mewel ! "  sounded  from  the  front  of  the 
car.  There  was  a  double  groin.  A  little  bell 
tinkled  lazily.  The  rusty  wheels  began  slowly  to 
revolve. 

"  It's  an  awful  hour  to  call,"  admitted  Franklin 
under  the  rumble  of  the  wheels.  "  I  couldn't  get  a 
carriage,  and  I  hadn't  any  horse.  There  wasn't  any 
car.  Forgive  me." 

Part  of  this  was  open  conversation,  and  Frank- 
lin made  still  further  polite  concessions  to  the  com- 
pany. Yes,  he  himself  was  a  member  of  the  bar — 
a  very  unworthy  one.  He  had  a  relative  who  was 
a  physician.  A  lovely  city,  this,  which  they  had. 
Beautiful  old  places,  these  along  the  way.  A  rare 
and  beautiful  life,  that  of  these  old  Southern  fami- 
lies. Delightful,  the  South.  He  had  always  loved 
it  in  so  far  as  he  had  ever  known  it,  and  he  felt  the 
better  acquainted,  having  known  Miss  Beauchamp 
so  well  in  her  former  home  in  the  West.  And  the 
judge  said,  "  Uh-ah !  "  and  the  doctor  bowed,  look- 
ing the  while  with  professional  admiration  at  the 
chest  and  flank  of  this  brown,  powerful  man,  whose 
eye  smote  like  a  ray  from  some  motor  full  of  com- 
pressed energy. 

Beyond  this  it  is  only  to  be  said  that  both  judge 
and  doctor  were  gentlemen,  and  loyal  to  beauty  in 
distress.  They  both  earned  Mary  Ellen's  love,  for 


368     THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

they  got  off  eight  blocks  sooner  than  they  should 
have  done,  and  walked  more  than  half  a  mile  in  the 
sun  before  they  found  a  place  of  rest. 

"  Oh,  well,  yessah,  Judge,"  said  Dr.  Gregg,  half 
sighing,  "  we  were  young  once,  eh,  Judge  ? — young 
once  ouhselves." 

"  Lucky  dog !  "  said  the  judge ;  "  lucky  dog ! 
But  he  seems  a  gentleman,  and  if  he  has  propah 
fam'ly  an'  propah  resources,  it  may  be,  yessah,  it 
may  be  she's  lucky,  too.  Oh,  Northehn,  yessah,  I 
admit  it.  But  what  would  you  expeck,  sah,  in  these 
times  ?  I'm  told  theh  are  some  vehy  fine  people  in 
the  No'th." 

"  Deep  through,"  said  the  doctor,  communing 
with  himself.  "  Carries  his  trunk  gran'ly.  Splen- 
did creatuah — splendid!  Have  him?  O'  co'se 
she'll  have  him!  What  woman  wouldn't?  What 
a  cadaver!  What  a  subjeck " 

"  Good  God !  my  dear  sir ! "  said  the  judge. 
"Really!" 

Meantime  the  dingy  little  car  was  trundling 
down  the  wide,  sleepy  street,  both  driver  and  mules 
now  fallen  half  asleep  again.  Here  and  there  a 
negro  sat  propped  up  in  the  sun,  motionless  and 
content.  A  clerk  stretched  an  awning  over  some 
perishable  goods.  A  child  or  two  wandered  along 
the  walk.  The  town  clock  pointed  to  half  past 
eleven.  The  warm  spring  sun  blazed  down.  A 
big  fly  buzzed  upon  the  window  pane.  No  more 


AT  THE  GATEWAY  369 

passengers  came  to  the  car,  and  it  trundled  slowly 
and  contentedly  on  its  course  toward  the  other  end 
of  its  route. 

Franklin  and  Mary  Ellen  sat  looking  out  before 
them,  silent.  At  last  he  turned  and  placed  his  hand 
over  the  two  that  lay  knit  loosely  in  her  lap.  Mary 
Ellen  stirred,  her  throat  moved,  but  she  could  not 
speak.  Franklin  leaned  forward  and  looked  into 
her  face. 

"  I  knew  it  must  be  so,"  he  whispered  quietly. 

"  What — what  must  you  think  ?  "  broke  out 
Mary  Ellen,  angry  that  she  could  not  resist. 

"There,  there,  dearest!"  he  said,  "don't 
trouble.  I  knew  it  was  to  be.  I  came  straight  to 
you."  He  tightened  his  grip  upon  her  hands. 
Mary  Ellen  straightened  and  looked  him  in  the 
face. 

"  I'll  admit  it,"  she  said.  "  I  knew  that  you  were 
coming.  I  must  have  dreamed  it." 

There  in  the  street  car,  upon  the  public  high- 
way, Franklin  cast  his  arm  about  her  waist  and 
drew  her  strongly  to  him.  "  Dear  girl,"  he  said, 
"  it  was  to  be !  We  must  work  out  our  lives  to- 
gether. Will  you  be  happy — out  there — with  me  ?  " 

Again  Mary  Ellen  turned  and  looked  at  him 
with  a  new  frankness  and  unreserve. 

"  That's  the  oddest  of  it,"  said  she.  "  Out  on 
the  prairies  I  called  the  South  *  back  home.'  Now 
it's  the  other  way." 


370     THE  GIRL  AT   THE  HALFWAY   HOUSE 

They  fell  again  into  silence,  but  already,  lover- 
like,  began  to  read  each  the  other's  thoughts  and  to 
find  less  need  of  speech. 

"  You  and  I,  dearest,"  said  Franklin  finally, 
"  you  and  I  together,  forever  and  ever.  We'll  live 
at  the  Halfway  House.  Don't  shiver,  child;  I've 
built  a  fine  new  house  there " 

"You've  built  a  house?" 

"  Yes,  yes.  Well,  I'll  confess  it— I  bought  the 
place  myself." 

"  Then  it  was  your  money  ?  " 

"  And  it  is  your  money." 

"  I've  a  notion,"  began  Mary  Ellen,  edging 
away,  biting  her  lip. 

"  And  so  have  I,"  said  Franklin,  stooping  and 
kissing  her  fingers  with  scandalous  publicity. 
"  I've  a  notion  that  you  shall  not  speak  of  that. 
It  is  ours.  We've  more  than  a  thousand  acres  of 
land  there,  and  plenty  of  cattle.  Curly  shall  be  fore- 
man— he's  married  the  little  waiter  girl,  and  has 
come  back  to  Ellisville ;  they  live  next  door  to  Sam 
and  Nora.  Aunt  Lucy  shall  be  our  cook.  We  shall 
have  roses,  and  green  grass,  and  flowers.  And  you 
and  I — you  and  I — shall  live  and  shall  do  that  which 
has  been  sent  to  us  to  do.  Mary  Ellen — dear  Mary 
Ellen " 

Again  the  girl  threw  up  her  head,  but  her  pride 
was  going  fast. 

"  Then — then  you  think — you  think  it  is  no  sin  ? 


AT  THE  GATEWAY  371 

Is  there  no  lapse  in  this  for  me?  You  think  I  shall 
not  be " 

Franklin  drew  her  closer  to  him.  "  That  which 
is  before  us  now  is  Life,"  he  said.  "  Dearest,  how 
sweet— how  very  sweet !  " 

A  caged  mocking  bird  at  a  little  near-by  house 
burst  out  into  a  shrill  paean,  fellow  to  that  of  the  wild 
bird  of  the  oaks.  Mary  Ellen  felt  her  senses  melt- 
ing into  a  mysterious,  bewildering  joy.  Uncon- 
sciously she  swayed  slightly  against  the  shoulder  of 
her  lover.  In  her  heart  the  music  of  the  bird 
thrilled  on,  even  when  the  tinkle  of  the  little  bell 
ceased,  even  when  Franklin,  stepping  from  the  car, 
held  up  his  hands  to  her  and  whispered,  "  Come." 


(2) 


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2^ 


RY 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below, 
or  on  the  date  to  which  renewed.  Renewals  only: 

Tel.  No.  642-3405 

Renewals  may  be  made  4  days  priod  to  date  due. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


1WTER-L1BRART 
LOAN 


JAMS  1971 


MAR  1 7  1978 


tft 


LD21A-60m-8,'70 
(N8837slO)476 — A-32 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


YB  67864 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


